


Vibrato

by LunalitSol



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blackmail, F/F, F/M, Finding Oneself, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, POV always goes back to Kurt as primary but is changing 3rd person limited, Tragedy, recovery process, toxic masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-05 09:17:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 23
Words: 136,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunalitSol/pseuds/LunalitSol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finn closes a door and irreparably changes the course of Kurt's life, as well as that of every other member of New Directions, the students of McKinley High, and a certain clueless Warbler.</p><p>Divergent from mid season two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Butterfly Effect

~~_blanket disclaimer: No, I do not own Glee, though it would make a fantastic present *hint, hint*. Please refrain from suing me? Thanks. :)_ ~~

 

 _“_ _It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.”_

_\---Chaos Theory_

…

 _“_ _There’s a ripple effecti_ _n all that we do. What you do touches me; what I do touches you.”_

 **_\---_ ** _Anonymous_

_~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~_

He hoped they could help.

He hoped it could be simple.

And, maybe, just maybe, he could have gained a friend, an ally at school among all the masses of rough, homophobic jocks and cold, cruel stoners and snotty, condescending Bible-thumpers. Once he'd allowed himself to calm down from the failed closeted-bully-intervention, his despair had been somewhat alleviated by time. He'd dared to hope that perhaps all of this would get Karofsky to slowly but surely back off, and, eventually, the whole ordeal would just serve as a good catalyst to make the other boy emerge from the enormous closet he'd locked himself in.

And he could just pretend Karofsky hadn't winked at him that day at lunch and wasn't terrifying the living hell out of him.

He could do that.

Really he could.

It wouldn't be too hard or anything. At least- he didn't think it would be.

But then….but-

"Cause if you do"

_Then-_

" **I'll Kill You."**

The words slamming into him. The cold chill of absolute terror. The hot throb of tears behind his eyes.

People said shit like that all the time. Just Joking.

But then.

This. _Karofsky._

The words had been said with such conviction. Such finality, such resolution.

It wasn't a joke. It really wasn't. He could feel it deep in his bones, in the pit of his chest, in his marrow and his blood. His whole body just knew.

 _ **It wasn't a joke**_.

Kurt was sure of that, and he knew Karofsky was too, but he felt like…well, like laughing, really. He felt like laughing, and crying and falling over and sobbing and screaming and hurling objects at walls and maybe, just maybe, hurling his guts out at them, too. He felt like he was dying already, as he stood there, paralyzed in the bustling hall where _no one ever cared_ , and _no one ever noticed._ And, perhaps, more than any thing else, Kurt felt alone, so secluded and so isolated and so desperately, painfully singular that it crushed him.

Kurt Hummel was Atlas, the world perched on his shoulders, folding him into a helpless, very much solitary, ball of a boy, with his shaking, aching, arms the only thing preventing the Earth from crashing down upon him.

Atlas was strong, and so was Kurt Hummel, but he was beginning to feel tiredness overwhelm his body and soon enough he just knew he would give out. It was inevitable, all just a matter of time…

Oh God...

Had Karofsky forgotten that Blaine knew? He…He might have…Oh, _shit_ … And Kurt had sworn he hadn't told anyone. It hadn't occurred to him that Blaine…And if Karofsky had forgotten, and _if he then remembered_ _ **, no, no**_ _,_ _when Karofsky then remembered,_ he would come after Kurt. He'd come after him with the intent to kill him. And what then?

Well nothing, of course. _He'd just be dead_.

Kurt had told his friends a few months ago that he didn't believe in God. And he didn't, dammit, he couldn't! What kind of God did this to people? Just _**no**_. Logic inconsistencies aside, it was so _wrong_. Kurt couldn't believe in something that would do this, create things and then basically just constantly psychologically torture them. What? It wasn't okay for abusers and serial killers and all that, but if you were God, if you were the _creator_ , it was perfectly alright? Hell, it was more than alright, it was…like a gift of some kind. And they were all just supposed to take it? Fuck no. Kurt Hummel was so not cool with that.

But.

But…

Still, he almost…wished…that he could believe in it, if only to escape the idea that if things went wrong, if Karofsky did kill him or Gaga-forbid some other pathetic bashers did, that would be it. He'd just be gone, evaporated into nothing but a cold shell body. And even that would eventually just disintegrate away. Kurt desperately wanted to believe that there was more, that he wasn't as temporary and breakable as he knew himself scientifically to be, and, yet, he also knew that there wasn't a prayer for him in that way, if the pun could be forgiven. Kurt placed his faith in the solid, in the there, always had, always would, and as much as it would be comforting to believe otherwise, he simply couldn't.

How easily all he held close to him, how easily his life, could just be snapped away from him. Just. Like. That. He could feel it now. His mortality. His fragility.

He'd never felt anything so scary.

But Hummels didn't let anybody push them around, so Kurt took a deep, shaky breath and stuffed his hands into the surprisingly deep pockets of his charcoal jacket and moved himself stiffly forward. He was Kurt Hummel and maybe right now he felt a little…cracked….like when a porcelain doll fell and gathered little spider-webbing breaks upon it's crème, perfect flesh, but that was okay, because cracks like those were easily covered up and, with a bit of time and superglue, everything always ended up fine.

Of course, if it didn't, well…

Kurt purposefully neglected to remember that those cracks were almost always a prelude to shatter, and that if the proper care didn't come on time, something almost always happened to make the situation worse.

But all that was OK, as long as he didn't think about it too much. So, Kurt walked down the now empty hallway towards his last class of the day, making sure to only think in terms of fashion and song. It helped him feel a little more in control…and a little less alone.

* * *

Finn had been feeling a bit…off all day, but the sensation didn't really, clearly hit him until he entered the choir room with Burt and they took their places on the stools at the front of the room. Kurt smiled at them from next to the piano, and placed his hands on his hips.

"Thank you both for attending the Kurt Hummel wedding-dance seminar."

Finn was quietly amused by how young Kurt looked when he said that.

"Dad, you're going to have to pull off the first dance with Carole. And if Uncle Andy's 40th birthday party was any indication, you're going to need some work."

"What are you talking about? My moves were great okay? It was the damn sangria…affected my coordination." Burt defended himself good-naturedly as he stood and made his way towards his son.

"Okay, We dance to the beat, not the words. Stand right here. Have you guys chosen a-no- a wedding song?"

"Uh, yes, we're thinking "Stairway" or some Bublé."

"Okay, great. So, it's basically one-two-three-four."

They moved into position and Finn had to shove down his instinctive reaction of discomfort. Even he knew that now wasn't the time.

"Alright, gentleman leads on the left. Right. Opposite of me. Okay? Get Ready. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four."

And they were off. Finn picked at his shirt a bit. Now, this was both awkward and...kinda  _boring_.

Finn just barely restrained a yawn. He had to do this for his mom, if anything. The four of them were going to be a family soon, and that meant he'd probably be putting up with Kurt's..well…Kurt-ness (and gay-ness…), for a really long time. He looked up as Burt exclaimed, "Look at me: I'm dancing!"

"Yeah," Kurt replied enthusiastically. "Okay, come over here and dance with yourself. Practice."

And that was his cue, he gathered. Nonetheless, he remained slumped on the stool, reluctant to actually stand up and dance with Kurt, like he was supposed to. Finn was totally cool with the gay-thing now, but actually dancing with Kurt, who was like the fairy queen of Narnia or whatever, was just too weird. Not that that would matter, he realized, to his mom, who had looked so proud when he agreed to do this thing in the first place.

 _Dammit,_  Finn groaned inwardly. There was no way he was going to be able to get out of this.

"Okay, Finn, no chickening out. I did it. You gotta do it too." Kurt jerked his head slightly as his father spoke, beckoning the taller boy to the floor.

Finn exhaled out an awkward okay, and stood, dragging his feet a bit as he went to where Kurt stood expectantly.

"Alright. Position."

Finn shuffled a bit, eyes darting towards the open door and the fairly empty expanse of McKinley hall beyond. Nervousness pooled in his stomach, and lumped in his throat.

"Uh…Can- can we like…shut the door?"

Kurt gave him a patented Kurt-look that said plainly how ridiculous he thought that was.

"What are you talking about? You danced in front of a thousand people at Regionals."

The feeling of discomfort grew, though, and Finn found himself walking towards the door anyways, tossing an "It'll only take a sec," over his shoulder at Kurt's incredulous face.

Finn reached the door in a few quick strides, closing it as he caught a glimpse of Karofsky approaching. It was probably a good thing, really, he figured. Who knew what Karofsky might have done or said if he'd seen them…? Finn automatically went over and shut the other door as well.

"See?" he said to Kurt's annoyed frame. "It only took a few seconds."

Burt shot Finn a mild look of warning mixed with amusement as he continued to dance with himself.

Kurt rolled his eyes.

"Whatever you need, Finn," he sighed. Then, he jerked his head again, a little harder than before, his movements and expression somehow exasperated, patient, and resigned all at once, and this time when Finn joined him it was with absolutely no protest.

It was odd, really. After he'd closed both doors, Finn had gotten this really funny feeling, like time had slowed down for a moment then rapidly sped up. It had been a little dizzying really, like the head rush you got from standing too quickly. And there'd also been this feeling, in his chest, like…like relief, almost. Now, though, the odd feelings were forgotten as he focused on his almost-step-brother, and learning how to properly dance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all caught the minor change that was made. Fair warning, this fic is headed toward a really dark place- You can expect everyone introduced by Furt, and maybe some others to be in here, in some way or another. Basically canon pairings and events will be mostly addressed, based on the way the events are impacted. I'm wary about giving warnings, because I like to have my readers adjust naturally to the story, without expectation. Therefore, the most I will really do on the story itself is let you know that there are dark themes ahead. If you want more at some point, you can just let me know in a PM or something, and I will address the matter privately. There is a definite trigger warning here, as well, by the way. If you have any personal experiences in anything addressed, or anything like that, feel free to contact me and chide me, advise me, whatever. As a final note, please no flames. If you have any problems whatsoever with homosexuality, I have no idea why you are on this story, in the Kurt section. Kurt is a gay character, and, so, the logical-conclusion is that if he is heavily involved in a story there will be some measures of slash. Homophobia is not logical, nor welcome here. Lastly: Welcome to Vibrato. I hope you enjoy the ride. This is a WIP, but is actually twenty chapters in on another site, so it's near completion, thus my expansion of horizons. I will be uploading those chapters, with some minor revisions, probably once or twice a week depending on my schedule and such. This story starts a bit slow as well, with smaller word counts, but does pick up quite a bit, and there are no chapters where nothing happens, that much I can assure you. Take care and thanks for reading. :)  
> ~LunalitSol


	2. First Dominoes Down

_“_ _It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.”_

_\---Chaos Theory_

…

 _“_ _There’s a ripple effecti_ _n all that we do. What you do touches me; what I do touches you.”_

 **_\---_ ** _Anonymous_

_~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~_

 

“-anything happens, remember Andy and your Aunt Mildred are just a phone call away. I’ve put their number on the fridge. Also, I want you to check in with Ernie at least once every few days. And, Kurt, I’d appreciate you working around the garage if you can. This stuff goes for you too, Finn. Your mom said you can also contact Mrs. Puckerman and that Noah kid of hers if you need to.”

“Oh, Puck’s probably gonna spend the night over here most of the time anyways,” Finn interjected with a dismissive half smile.

Kurt suppressed a groan at this, and instead volunteered his own tight smile and nod. His dad beamed in response.

“That’s great boys. Wait…he’s not gay is he?” Finn snorted in amusement at that and Kurt gave a chuckle of his own.

“No way Puck’s gay, Burt.”

“Yeah, absolutely no way. He got a girl pregnant last year, dad, and he’s made his way through almost all the girls in Glee.”

Burt nodded. “No way. That’s good. Well then,” Burt finished with renewed enthusiasm, “that really is great, boys.”

“What’s great?” Carole inquired as she entered the room, dragging her suitcase behind her. Carole went to Burt, who snaked an arm around his wife’s waist.

“Finn was just saying that that Puckerman kid will probably be staying over here a lot.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Carole smiled fondly at Finn. “Have you boys been patching things up more?”

“Yeah,” Finn nodded. “We’ve been good for a while this year. He got his tubes tied or whatever this summer.”

Kurt _did_ groan at that, while both Burt and Carole laughed loudly.

“That’s good Finny,” Carole said kindly.

“It’s vasectomy, Finn,” Kurt told his new brother. “And, seriously? Carole, did you happen to get your inspiration from A Separate Peace by any chance?”

“What’s that?” Finn asked.

“We’ve got to get going,” Burt interrupted, glancing at his watch. “We’ll see you boys in two weeks.”

Burt and Carole headed for the door, Carole calling “Be good guys,” over her shoulder. And then they were gone.

“Huh…So, what’s A Separate Peace?” Finn asked after a pause.

Kurt sighed, going to the fridge and glancing over the fridge.

“It’s a novel by John Knowles that’s basically brimming with homo-eroticism.”

“Oh…” Finn replied awkwardly.

“When is Puck coming over?”

“He said he’ll be here by five, in time for dinner. What are you gonna make?”

Of course Finn had decided that Kurt was making dinner without asking him. Kurt forced a smile in the direction of his step-brother.

“I’ll think of something.”

“Okay…”

“Do you need a ride to school today?”

Finn nodded his head sheepishly.

“That’d be pretty cool…”

“Make sure your shoes are clean. I’ll make you some scrambled eggs while you’re getting ready to go.”

“Thanks dude,” Finn told him, already running down to the basement.

“Don’t call me-“, the door slammed, “Dude,” Kurt sighed, opening the fridge and pulling out first two eggs, then after a moment, a third, as well as the butter. He set about making eggs for Finn, then when they were ready, popped in some rye bread toast for himself. He was spreading jam over the toast when Finn came bounding back into the kitchen and scooped up the plate with eggs, in addition to nabbing one of Kurt’s pieces of toast. Kurt glared pointedly at the taller boy, but let it go, fixing himself a glass of water and, reluctantly, getting Finn some milk.

“Thanks man,” Finn told Kurt through a mouthful of toast and eggs.

Kurt wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“First of all, Finn, please remember to chew with your mouth closed. I’m not interested in being witness to the first few steps of the digestive process in action.”

Finn went to speak again, despite the fact that there was _still_ food in his mouth, but Kurt held up a hand.

“I’m not done. Secondly, my name is Kurt. I am not dude. I am not bro. I am not man. Please address me as such.”

Finn chased down the food with a deep swig of milk, wiped his sleeve over his mouth, and smirked a bit.

“You technally are my bro.”

“Technically,” Kurt corrected him. Honestly. He was beginning to feel like he was speaking to a toddler.

Finn shrugged. “Whatever. Can we go now?”

“Go get your stuff. I’m going to wash these dishes and then we’ll leave.”

“Cool bro.”

“Finn!” but Finn had already disappeared. Kurt bit his lip and carried the dishes over to the sink, letting the rhythmic beat of the water from the faucet and the sponge in his hand soothe his rising temper.

Usually Kurt had so much more ease dealing with Finn’s antics. He was just on edge today. Kurt hadn’t seen Karofsky at all yesterday, having chosen to stay home with his dad and Carole (and Finn) before the adults left for their honeymoon. The wedding had gone perfectly of course, every bit according to plan. Carole had loved the speech Kurt had written for Finn to read, and even the awkwardness he’d been feeling from Finn ever since Mike, Artie, and Sam yelled at Karofsky in Kurt’s defense hadn’t interfered in the greatness of the night.

Unfortunately, now the awkwardness was apparently back, and Kurt had no doubt he’d have to see Karofsky again today.

He hated how scared the prospect made him. Hopefully, though, the fight with Sam and the other guys would be enough to make the closeted jock back off, at least a little bit.

Kurt could only hope.

Much to Kurt’s both relief and chagrin, the day was going as smoothly as any other. Sure, he’d been dumped in the trash for the first time in a while, and then slushied in the hall right after first period. There had been about three locker checks so far, and one jock had thought it would be funny to take his jacket and douse it in the spaghetti surprise at lunch. But that jacket had already been not-so-perfect from the day’s activities beforehand, and wasn’t as designer as he had been pretending (shhh…), so Kurt didn’t mind it as much as he could’ve.

Karofsky had been involved in only one of the locker checks as well as a single, menacing wink, and while none of this made Kurt very happy, he was well aware that it could be so much worse.

His last period before Glee was debate, and the news of Kurt’s dad’s marriage had evidently gotten out, culminating in a day-ruining discussion of gay marriage, which meant a lot of disparaging, homophobic remarks were thrown Kurt’s way, but he took it in stride, combating each with all the condescension he could muster (and if a few students outfits were insulted as well, well maybe they should try putting their efforts into figuring out how not to dress like blind fashion-impaired cave-men instead of their pathetic homophobia).

It was not a good day, but it was better than he’d expected and for that Kurt was very glad. Of course, he neglected to remember that the day was not yet over.

And then, the day _was_ over, and Kurt was practically glowing.

Mr. Schue’s saying he might be allowed a solo at either sectionals or regionals pending an “audition” of sorts was enough to make the rest of the day practically disappear. He was of course skeptical that it would pan out, but the opportunity to present a dazzling performance that would sweep the entire room off of their collective feet was impossibly day (and mood) brightening.

Kurt made Puck and Finn a light chicken alfredo for dinner that Puck called gay a few times, and then told him after a few bites was “gay, but tasty as hell”, and “is it kosher? Cause my ma would love this shit”. The three of them then retired to the basement, where the two jocks played video games, and Kurt quickly checked out the bruises healing on his back and sides before heading upstairs to call Blaine.

Kurt drummed his fingers on the coffee table as the call went through, Blaine picking up on the third ring.

“Kurt?”

“Hey,” Kurt greeted warmly, smiling a bit.

“What’s going on?”

“Just thought I’d call. We haven’t talked in a while, and Finn and Puck are preoccupied cave-man-ing it up. Seemed like a good opportunity.”

Blaine emitted a deep, throaty chuckle that made Kurt’s stomach flutter.

“Sounds like. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know. Surviving, attempting to salvage humanity’s fabulousness potential one horribly-dressed neandrathal at a time.”

“Any luck?”

“Unfortunately, Houston, we haven’t quite landed,” Kurt replied dryly. Blain’s laugh sounded in his ear again.

“Just make sure those Gucci scarves don’t get incinerated or anything out there, okay Kurt?”

“Baby, I’m the only burning hot star in this galaxy,” Kurt replied with a smile. He shifted position on the couch, stretching out on the familiar material.

“I don’t think I’ve ever believed anything more in my life,” Blaine told him seriously.

Kurt blushed and ducked his head against the pillow backing of the couch.

“How have you been?” he asked after a moment.

“Oh. Good. I was actually going to call you. I need to tell you something.”

“Oh?”

Kurt pulled himself back into a seated position, concern furrowing his brow.

“What’s going on?”

“See…Oh, I don’t really know how to say this…”

 _Oh, Gosh,_ Kurt thought _, he likes me. He has to like me and he’s getting ready to tell me….that’s all this could be. Please let him say he likes me._

Kurt could already hear it. He could hear Blaine saying something like, _“There is a moment when you say to yourself, 'Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you forever.’ I’ve been thinking and you and I- We’re perfect, Kurt…”_

And then, reality broke in, and real-like Blaine spoke, and Kurt realized just how foolish that little fantasy was. Blaine would never say anything even remotely like that to Kurt. Not in this life. Not in this world.

“The thing is, Kurt, the council talked to me today, and for now we really want to concentrate on competition. For the next couple of weeks, I agreed that you and I wouldn’t really…talk…Please, understand, Kurt. This isn’t about you. I don’t want us to ever not be friends. But The Warblers are incredibly important to me, and this is just a precaution I’ve got to take. I’m not the only one. Last year when we faced Vocal Adrenaline and the now disbanded Hand’s Hummers from Edward Hand High, five of the guys had to stop talking to some of their friends for the few weeks leading up to competition. It’s not really forbidden, of course. There are always exceptions to the rule. But, it’s best to just play along, you know? I just…I don’t want to be the one stubborn Warbler squawking my own tune, following my own rules, or anything, when everyone else is respecting the council’s wishes and taking one for the team. It’s not a bad thing to conform on things like this Kurt…And, sorry, I’m rambling, I know…”

Kurt’s entire face was red and there was a lump in his throat.

This was such…bullshit!

“I…” Kurt tried to say something, anything. But all he could do was shake his head as one or two tears edged their way from his eyes.

“You have really fantastic timing, you know that? Fine. Bye Blaine,” Kurt forced out at last.

And then he hung up, pulled his mom’s old afghan off the top of the couch, and mourned silently, if a bit tearfully, into the familiar fabric until his exhaustion pulled him under like a lamenting lullaby.

“Dude. Are you sure he’s alive?”

Something poked Kurt’s forehead. Hard. What the-? It did it again…

He jerked awake with a start, a defensive snarl curling his lips instinctively.

Puck and Finn were standing above him with dopey looks on their faces. Kurt moaned and turned onto his stomach, digging his face into the pillow behind him. He shook his head a few times against the warm material before slowly pulling himself up.

“What time is it?” he moaned out.

Puck smirked at him and a warning bell went off in Kurt’s head.

“It’s 7:30,” Puck told him pleasantly. Kurt bolted off the couch, releasing a shrill, “What?”

“Told ya tellin’ him would be funny,” Puck chortled to a laughing Finn as Kurt darted for the stairs down to his basement, ranting loudly about a morning skin care routine, the horrors of a spontaneous ensemble, how breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and stupid neaderthals that just didn’t understand.

Kurt very nearly leapt into the shower fully clothed, before recalling his state of cover and peeling the attire from his body. He usually took shower time to relax and prepare himself for the coming day, but there was no time for that. He was deeply frenzied as he scrubbed himself clean, on the verge of another fit of tears.

He wasn’t quite sure what was wrong with him. He’d been crying so much lately, since the beginning of the year practically, he’d been feeling himself slowly break down, particularly after his dad’s heart attack, but even before then with his outbursts during the Britney Spears debacle. He was at the end of his rope these days, just barely clinging to the frays.

Kurt stepped out of the shower, toweling off as quickly as he dared. He, then, hastened to his closet, grabbing the deep blue Gucci sweater he’d worn during his Defying Gravity self-sabotage and white skinny jeans to offset the rich tone of his top. He then grabbed a blue scarf of the same shade as his sweater and tied it expertly about himself so that the two ends hung against his white pants at just slightly different lengths. Kurt tugged on some blue shoes to complete the ensemble and rushed up the stairs, throwing a glance at the clock. It was 8:12 a.m. Dammit….

He heaved a sigh.

“Puck! Finn!”

The two boys appeared from around the corner looking at him with expressions of amusement.

“Dude, your hair’s still wet,” Puck said a grin.

“I know,” Kurt snapped. “Come on. We’re already late enough.”

Finn shrugged, and the two jocks slunk after Kurt as he ran to the door and jerked it open to reveal…darkness. The sky was lightened with morning, but still dark enough for Kurt to be sure that it was absolutely not past seven a.m., let alone eight.

Kurt stared, gaping, into the early morning, before slowly turning around to face the guys. Puck was cracking up, while Finn looked concerned.

“You changed the clocks,” Kurt said wearily.

“Sorry man…I mean Kurt,” Finn corrected at Kurt’s sharp look of rebuke. “Sorry, Kurt. You have to admit…it’s pretty funny though,” Finn smiled brilliantly for a moment at his and Puck’s perceived comic genius, but the expression faded when Kurt did not join him in his jubilation.

“I’m really sorr-”

“No, that’s alright, Finn,” Kurt interrupted, his tone unexpectedly bright now. Puck stopped sniggering and frowned at the younger boy along with Finn.

“Come on. Let’s go to school.”

Both boys’ jaws dropped.

“Uh…what?” Finn asked, rubbing the heel of a hand over his forehead, a look of slow perplexity shrouding his face.

“What are you talking about, Hummel?” Puck asked, some classic Puckerman-menace slipping subconsciously into his tone.

It was Kurt’s turn to smirk.

“You changed the clocks for a reason, didn’t you? You wanted to go to school, let’s go.”

Kurt scooped a granola bar from the cupboard, hefted his bag a bit, and smiled at the pair. They were staring at him in horror.

“That ain’t cool, Kurt,” Puckerman said, shaking his head. Kurt shrugged and he groaned loudly. “Come on, Princess! You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I most certainly am, Puckerman,” Kurt replied calmly.

“Bu-” “Fine,” Finn interrupted Puck, casting his friend a look. Puck gaped at him.

“You’re kidding me!”

“I’m sorry, but didn’t you get my girlfriend pregnant last year?”

That got Puckerman quiet real fast. He simply sighed and nodded his acquiescence, palming his Mohawk instinctively. Kurt raised a brow at the two of them.

“This going to school early thing best not jack with my rep,” Puck muttered.

“Are you coming or not?”

“Are you saying we have a choice?” Finn asked excitedly.

Both brows were raised now.

“He’s not,” Puck told Finn unhappily. He went to grab something to eat on the way from the cupboard, but Kurt clucked his tongue.

“Nuh-uh-uh, boys. We’re already _far too late_ , aren’t we?”

Kurt was actually having fun now.

Puck sneered at him but snatched his hand back from the food. Kurt smirked and turned on his heel, leading the way from the house.

“Dude,” Puck told Finn, “your brother _sucks_.”

Finn shrugged.

“I know. But there’s not really anything I can do about it, y’know?” he griped behind Kurt’s back.

Kurt stiffened, his fun evaporating a bit. The old sense of forlornliness swept over him, but he climbed into his baby and stuck the key in the ignition, doing his best to ignore it. Finn and Puck both clambered into the back, neither obviously wanting to sit next to him. Well, that was just fine, Kurt thought irritably. Whatever.

The day better improve from here on out…

Unsurprisingly, the day did not, in fact, get any better from there. In fact, it just got worse.  Kurt was rapidly coming to suspect that Fate had absolutely no heed for him or his wishes. This was only confirmed when during the passing between second and third period, David Elliot Karofsky dragged him into a janitor’s closet.

 


	3. All You Have

  _“_ _It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.”_

_\---Chaos Theory_

…

 _“_ _There’s a ripple effecti_ _n all that we do. What you do touches me; what I do touches you.”_

 **_\---_ ** _Anonymous_

_~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~_

__Kurt scowled furiously at David Karofsky from the back of the janitor’s closet; his hands set firmly upon his hips in prime “bitch, please” position and chest heaving.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked the jock sharply.

Karofsky was standing in front of the door with the strangest look on his face. Kurt had managed to jerk his arm from the other boy’s bruising grip and swiftly retreat as far back as he could. Meanwhile, Karofsky had simply shifted himself to lean against the door menacingly and had barely moved since.

The staring was unnerving to say the least.

Kurt estimated that they’d been in here close to ten minutes, but he couldn’t really be sure.  Time was oddly distorted when he was in the jock’s company, both stretching on forever and slipping by indescribably fast. He wanted to take out his phone and check the time, but was silently afraid that any sudden movements may act as impetus for Karofsky to attack. The urge remained, though, a quiet itch twitching within his hand and tingling its way down the length of his fingers.

The corner of Karofsky’s mouth lifted into a cross between a smirk and a sneer, and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, seeming to gleam in the ever-present darkness. It took Kurt every ounce of strength within him to not collapse against the wall, a shaking, cowering hot mess right then and there. That look…he was completely at Karofsky’s mercy here and they both knew it.

Nonetheless, Kurt stood strong. His strength was all he had in a situation like this. It was the only reason he was even still alive in the first place. It would not be failing him now.

Finally, Karofsky spoke.

“I wanted to talk to you about something, lady. That gonna be a problem?”

Kurt rolled his eyes.

“As long as you stay over there whilst you do so, I doubt there’s anything I can say to stop you,” Kurt snapped briskly in reply.

Karofsky’s lip curled upwards a little more and his nostrils flared.

“How long you gonna keep up this little bitch act before the fury’s gonna have to teach you your place, fag?”

Kurt drew himself up to his full height and did his best to disdainfully look down his nose at the boy who was at least two, if not three, inches taller.

“As astoundingly frightening as your attempt at a James Dean impersonation is, I have to wonder how long it will be before the entire world sees through it to the scared little gay boy underneath.”

Karofsky was on Kurt before he could blink, reeling his fist back and slamming it across the countertenor’s cheekbone, knuckles crashing from the top of a cheek reddened with exertion to a mouth slightly open in shock. Kurt barely had time to lift a trembling hand to the side of his face before the fist was back, slamming into his chest this time. A little choked gasp escaped him, and a tear slipped unnoticed down his face as he was knocked to the floor and pinned against the lower part of a wall.

“You need to learn to keep your mouth shut, Hummel,” Karofsky said lowly as he crouched over the smaller boy, hot, smelly breath ghosting over Kurt’s already-bruised cheek and bleeding lips. He could feel the moisture from Karofsky’s noisy exhales clinging to his usually flawless flesh and had the abrupt urge to scrub it away. The sensation of any bit of the jock on him very nearly sent Kurt into a frenzy. Tears were coming endlessly now, as much an instinctive bodily function as the breathing itself. 

A rough, calloused hand came up to land forcefully over Kurt’s bloodied mouth and Karofsky stared at him again.

“I said to keep your mouth shut,” he hissed, “not start sobbing like a little girl. Geez, what’s wrong with you Hummel?” A funny look crossed Karofsky’s face. “Maybe you are a girl. Is that it, Hummel? How about I check?” Karofsky’s hand fell from Kurt’s lips to his knee and traveled quickly upward, resting at the top of his thigh, with fingers digging inward slightly.

Kurt’s breath caught and he shook his head vigorously.

“No, no, no. I’m a boy. I’m a boy, I swear,” he said urgently. Karofsky laughed at him and confusion swept over Kurt as he observed that the bully’s eyes looked almost-soft in that fleeting moment.

The hand was still there on Kurt’s thigh, but it wasn’t really moving and Karofsky was just sort of looking at him.

“You look like a girl, though, Hummel,” the jock said at last. “That’s why. It’s just cause you look like a girl, and act like one and sound like one. And you’re always wearing those tight girly clothes.”

Kurt’s eyes closed tightly as the words settled into him against his will.

Was that true? Maybe Karofsky was…

 _‘No,’_ he told himself firmly, gritting his teeth a bit. He’d worked too hard to get this far to let some dumb, closeted coward of a bully get to him. This was just another hill he’d have to climb alone, another blockade he’d have to get past. It was all leading somewhere. Things sucked now, sure, but he just had to survive it two more years and then he’d be out of this cow town and he would be _someone_ , someone important. And then they’d see, each and every one of them, and he’d have them begging just to clean his septic tank.

He could feel himself steadily crumbling inwards as time went on and things just got worse, but Kurt couldn’t be weak, not now. Not ever.

Suddenly, Karofsky’s lips were on his again and Kurt’s entire train of thought dissipated at the feeling of them. Kurt shoved against the jock as hard as he could, but this time Karofsky wasn’t backing off. Desperation turned his movements frantic and, without thinking, Kurt let his flailing foot crash into the jock’s crotch. Karofsky released a broken yowl and pulled hastily back, hands going to clutch at the injured area. Kurt flew towards the door in an instant and grasped the door knob, jerking it hard.

Nothing.

The door was locked.

Kurt took a step back then heaved himself forward, slamming against the door full force. When the door didn’t so much as budge, he began pounding on the wood. Arms wrapped around him from behind and began pulling him away, but Kurt clung with all his might, one hand wrapped around the stubborn knob, whilst the nails of the other scrabbled helplessly against the unfeeling interior of the door. It was all to no avail, however, as he was jerked backwards and practically thrown into the back wall.

A bucket tipped over along with a mop and several bottles of comet, the resulting crash seeming to resound in the thick, tension-filled air. Karofsky looked practically demonic and all Kurt could do was stare, all wide blue eyes and bruised-skin and still-bleeding plump-red lips. Karofsky lifted a hand to the side of his head, appearing abruptly exhausted.

“You’re making this so much harder than it has to be, Hummel,” he sighed, and he almost sounded disappointed.  Kurt had to resist the urge to hang his head, which was absolutely ridiculous, but still disturbingly _there_. Instead, he straightened his neck, clenched his jaw, and held his head as high as he possibly could, despite the evidence of tears on his cheeks and the blossoming of several bruises on his wan flesh. He had yet to really notice the blood just starting to dry and crust around his bottom lip.

“You’re the one who’s making everything hard, Dave,” he said sharply, if a bit wearily. “I told you to leave me alone. I don’t want you near me,” he repeated himself, “Why don’t you just do that? You can just go away and I’ll never tell anyone what you did to me.”

“That’s bull, Hummel,” Karofsky retorted harshly. “And it’s not gonna happen.”

Karofsky smirked a little.

“Face it, Kurt,” Karofsky said his name like a slap in the face, and Kurt felt like screaming at him. He didn’t get to call Kurt by his first name. That felt as much an invasion as the other boy’s hand on his thigh.

“I’ve got all the power here. You tell anyone what happened, and no-one will believe you, at least no-one who matters. And then I’ll just kill you.”

“You’re sick, Karofsky,” Kurt whispered.

 Karofsky actually laughed at that, and Kurt flinched at the noise.

“You’ve just got to stop fighting it, Hummel. Stop fighting and just give in, already. No one’s buying your charade.”

“Ooh, big word,” Kurt shot back mockingly.

Karofsky took several steps forward, coming up to loom menacingly over Kurt’s vulnerable frame.

“That was weak, Hummel, and you know it.”

Kurt didn’t respond, only narrowing his blue eyes at the jock.

“If you give in and stop being such a little bitch about everything, I can make it good for you, you know?”

That got Kurt to talk.

“You can’t make anything good for me, because I don’t want you! I told you that day that I don’t dig on boys who sweat too much or are going to be bald by the time they’re thirty, but even more than that, I do not dig on cowardly, pathetic closeted jocks that can’t control their temper! Can’t you get that through your thick skull or have one too many of the big boys on the team tackled you? Maybe that’s why you moved over to football instead of hockey. Is that it? You realized how much you liked feeling other guys up against you and decided to move to a sport where you could get more!”

“Don’t push me Hummel,” Karofsky shouted. His eyes were wild and Kurt’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click at the familiar words. He was reminded painfully of exactly the type of precarious position he was in as Karofsky’s hands abruptly grasped his shoulders and slammed him back against the wall.

Kurt wondered distantly what time it was once again and whether his phone was even still with him after the events of the morning thus far. If it was still third period, which it probably was, then no-one had likely noticed he was gone. He had absolutely no friends in his English class to speak of, and while he had Brett in second period as well as third, the other boy was usually too high to actually notice anything. Kurt wasn’t about to have anyone looking for him anytime soon. This meant he had to keep his mouth shut and let Karofsky say what he wanted, if he wanted to get out of here alive.

Kurt Hummel was not going to be killed in a janitor’s closet when he wasn’t even seventeen.

Kurt groaned as his head rebounded from impact with the wall and meaty hands wrapped around his neck, effectively making breathing an infinitely more difficult affair, though their grip wasn’t quite tight enough to actually cut off his precious supply of air.

“You ready to listen to me, Hummel?”

“Yes,” Kurt managed to croak out in reply.

“Good.”

Karofsky gave him an odd little smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Kurt simply closed his eyes tiredly. This whole mood-swinging nonsense was wearing him out and, frankly, giving him emotional whiplash.

“You. Are. A. Fag. You know what that tells me, Hummel?”

Kurt didn’t bother to respond, as the question was obviously rhetorical and his throat hurt too much for a witty comeback to be any sort of option.

“You want me, Hummel, cause I’m a guy and you’re a fairy, and you fairies will go for anything or anyone. As long as I’ve got a dick, you’ll be into me.” Karofsky leaned in a little closer and Kurt opened his eyes long enough to see the expression of mingled excitement and revulsion written plainly on his face.

David Karofsky licked his lips, eyes tracing over Kurt, drinking in every inch of him. Kurt trained his gaze on a mop across the little room, examining it as he was himself examined.

He’d have to get the janitor a bedazzler and teach him/her how to use it. This closet was as drab as it got… 

Karofsky’s tongue touched the shell of his ear and he flinched, attention jerking back to the jock on top of him.

“You may be a fag, but you are human Hummel. The proof of that is right there, on your lip.”

One of Karofsky’s hands released his throat and went to touch the dried blood on his puffy bottom lip, although that did nothing for Kurt. The jock needed only one hand to practically crush his neck against the stone wall.   

“People need to be touched. They want it so much that it sometimes consumes them.”

Kurt was forced to wonder where Karofsky was getting these semi-intelligent thoughts. Not that it was very important, considering how obvious it was that Karofsky had been rehearsing this. That sort of thing would normally have been considered almost sickeningly cute, but in this situation it just seemed hideously perverted and frightening.

“You’re not special, Hummel. You’re no exception to that. And take a look around. No-one here wants you, Hummel.”

Okay, so that stung a little… Was he really so transparent that even Karofsky could pick up on his insecurities now?

Fantastic.

“Even that gay hobbit from a few days back. He doesn’t want you, does he Princess? I’m it. I’m the only thing even close to an option you have, Hummel. Like it, or not.”

Blaine’s words from the night before came rushing back, and this time Karofsky’s words really stung, because Kurt knew they were true.

“You’re sick,” he whispered hoarsely once more, more to himself than anything else. “You’re sick…”

“Fuck it,” Karofsky snarled with relish. “Maybe you’re right! Maybe I am sick! But, you know what, Hummel? You’re sick too! And the only way a sick fuck like you will ever get the type of attention you’re desperate for is from a sick fuck like me! Jesus, you made me like this Hummel! I didn’t ask for it and it’s all your goddamn fault! I am only this way because of you and your gay-cooties, faggot. None of the other guys will go anywhere near you, will they? And I’m the proof of exactly why. After you kissed me, you-You. Christ! I’m the only one, Kurt. I’m it, and guess what? I’m the absolute best guy a girl like you could ever get. You need to remember that!”

“Get away from me,” Kurt whispered weakly.

Karofsky smiled.

“Sure thing, fancy. I’ll get away from you and then what? Then, you’ll just be all alone. Just like always. You sure you still want that, Kurt? When there’s a possibility of having things another way?”

Karofsky’s smile twitched into a smirk, and Kurt repressed a shudder, lowering his eyes to the filthy floor. The jock slammed his head back once more then removed his hands and stood, fishing in his pocket and withdrawing a key.

“I got Azimio to help me by locking us in here so I could teach you a lesson. I made a copy of the key to these closets for me, and a copy for him. You’ll never be able to get away Hummel,” Karofsky told him seriously. His leg shot out and kicked Kurt in the side, a whimpering tearing from the countertenor’s swollen lips.

The jock pulled his letterman jacket straight the way one would tug askew clothing back into place following some sort of illicit sex, unlocked the door, and left.

It took Kurt a full twenty minutes to pull himself together enough to find his phone and fire off a text to both Finn and Mercedes. He almost didn’t even bother with texting his supposed BFF, but figured that he was sort of obliged to, and plus if he told her then she’d be unable to stop herself from immediately informing the rest of glee club, which meant less Rachel-yelling when he didn’t show up and Finn remembered too late to let everyone know.

With much reluctance, Kurt texted Puck as well, informing him that he was going home early and that meant he and Finn would have to find their own ride home.

It took another ten minutes to pull himself off the floor, and then the bell rang and he had to wait for passing to finish so that he could get outside to his car without being seen.

Five minutes later, Kurt slipped out of the janitor’s closet and headed out towards the parking lot.

~X~~X~~X~

"Hey Hummel."

Kurt jumped at the sound of Puck's voice behind him and whirled around.

"Holy shit, what happened to you?" Puck actually sounded concerned.

Kurt scoffed a bit.

"That doesn't matter, Puckerman. What are you doing here?"

Puck's eyes flashed and for a moment Kurt expected the jock to jump him too. Instead, Puck just shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"You said you had to go home. I figured you were sick, so it'd be better if I drove you, and that way I could drive back in a bit and get Finn."

"Wow, that actually displays some semblance of logical thought, Noah. I'm shocked," Kurt said sardonically before he could stop himself and remember that Puck hadn't actually done anything wrong and didn't deserve Kurt's pent up anger. His own words from almost a year ago popped into his head.

_Your lashing out at me is fantastically compelling, and inappropriate._

Puck's eyes grew darker still and he swiftly snatched the keys from Kurt's hand.

"Jesus, Hummel, you don't gotta be such a bitch about it," Puck exclaimed irritably, shoving Kurt lightly to the side. Kurt let him, the words echoing in his ears.

Karofsky flashed in his mind's eye and he swallowed hard. Tears burned at his eyes and his hands began to tremble. Kurt shook his head vigorously to dispel the memory, going quickly to the passenger side of his car. Normally he would have complained, but Kurt knew that he was really not in any state to drive, and that doing so would put him at definite risk of crashing his baby.

Nonetheless, while he was grateful to Puck for possibly saving his car, he also couldn't help but resent the jock's seeing him in his present state. Kurt really didn't want to be teased about this later, nor did he even want anybody to know.

Kurt sighed and closed his eyes tightly, tipping his head back against the top of his seat.

There was only one jock that really mattered right now, and it was not Noah Puckerman.

It was David Karofsky.

Kurt, apparently, had a decision to make. He only wished it wasn't so hard to figure out the right one.

This should be a no-brainer, shouldn't it?

Except that it wasn't at all, because it was basically either continue to get hurt and be lonely and let himself crack until someone really noticed or it was too late.

Or.

Or he could not fight it so much, and imagine that it's anyone but Karofsky touching him, and maybe have a little piece of what he so desperately, with all his heart, desired.

The second option was a lot more tempting than Kurt wanted to admit, even though he had a feeling that he wouldn't be spared hurt by the volatile Karofsky just because he wasn't struggling as much as he could be.

Kurt wasn't quite sure what the bottom line was- that he desperately needed someone to kiss and hug and hold and this was quite possibly the only chance he had for any of that, or that Kurt Hummel did not give up-, he was only sure that he had a lot of thinking to do this weekend before he was forced to return to the inevitable horror of school and David Karofsky come Monday.

He had a choice here.

Kurt prayed that he wouldn't screw it up.


	4. Cause and Effect

_“_ _It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.”_

_\---Chaos Theory_

…

 _“_ _There’s a ripple effecti_ _n all that we do. What you do touches me; what I do touches you.”_

 **_\---_ ** _Anonymous_

_~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~_

Puck tapped his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel of Kurt’s car in time with the beat.

School hadn’t yet ended, but after Puck had gotten back to the Hudmel house and Kurt had retreated downstairs, he’d texted Finn how he’d gone with Kurt and would be returning to pick Finn up, and how the countertenor had looked really beaten up. He’d figured Finn would be upset, but he hadn’t expected Finn to immediately reply that he wanted Puck to come pick him up now, and that he’d be out soon. Supposedly, Finn planned to fake sick with the school nurse Miss Clemens.

Normally, that sort of thing wouldn’t work and Puck would tell Finn not to even bother trying, but the Nurse was extremely lenient, favoring the jocks and other students high on the high school food chain in particular.

Still, Finn was taking practically forever.

Puck groaned and leaned forward to fiddle with the knob of the radio. Kurt usually kept his iPod in here, and while Puck was so not into Hummel’s usual type of music, he’d evidently already started to become accustomed to it, thus his current musical-related restlessness.

As he was spinning the dial, a knock sounded on the window of the passenger side, and he looked over, rolling his eyes at Finn’s dopey face pressed up against the window, reaching over to unlock the door.

The taller boy clambered in hastily, pulling his backpack in with him.

“Hey, man.”

“You took forever,” Puck replied with no small degree of irritation as he started the car.

Finn shrugged, snapping his seatbelt into place as Puck pulled out of the parking lot.

“Sorry. The attendance lady was busy talking with Rosdale about some janitor-situation thing…How bad did he look?”

“He was pretty beat up,” Puck told him through gritted teeth. Neither one of them was pleased with this latest development.

“I can’t believe Karofsky! I thought for sure he’d back off after Sam and the guys went after him.”

“Karofsky sucks,” Puck stated agreeably, “but we don’t know for sure it was him.”

Finn snorted, as did Puck after a moment.

“Okay, so, it probably was,” Puck admitted. “But, dude, no offense or anything cause Kurt’s totally like my boy now, but dude’s a complete flamer. He’s gotta attract a lot of this shit.”

“I never thought of that,” Finn sighed. “It’s not fair.”

Puck rolled his eyes at that, but didn’t bother to reply.

Finn watched out the window for a few minutes, thinking, then asked, “What do you think we should do?”

Puck’s lip curled with amusement and a vague disdain.

“We?”

Finn gave him a hard look and Puck nodded resignedly after a moment.

“Ask him I guess. Get a rundown.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” Finn frowned. “What if it’s really bad?”

Puck shrugged half-heartedly, eyes on the road. They were only a couple minutes away now.

“I’m his brother now, Puck,” Finn burst out. “And it’s like, I was one of them once, y’know? I feel like I’ve already failed at my job as an older brother or whatever. I don’t like letting people down, dude.”

Puck pulled into the driveway and turned off the car.

“I know. I was too. Look, dude, you gotta stop being such a drama queen! That stuff’s the past. None of it matters anymore. It’s not like we’re still hurting Hummel or anything, man. Chill.” When Finn didn’t look convinced, he continued: “We’re just a couple of teenagers now, right?”

Finn nodded and Puck grinned at him.

“And that means, unless you like kill somebody or-“

“Get your best friend’s girl pregnant?”

Puck faltered for a second, but quickly regained stride, though the hand that had found his Mohawk spoke to the contrary of his words and general demeanor.

“Any Life and death stuff aside, dude. That’s it. Everything else you do. It maybe has a little effect if it’s grades or screwin’ around or stealing shit, you know? But otherwise, it’s like…nothing you do when you’re a kid really matters. There was nothing you could do or could not do to change the way things are. Even if you don’t do anything your entire life, shit will still happen. That’s it. That’s life. And, once you’re an adult I guess, everything starts to count, but when you’re still just a kid? Nah.”

The pair of them simply sat there for the next five or so minutes, letting Puck’s words slowly sink in. Then, Finn abruptly laughed.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Puck asked defensively.

Finn laughed harder and clutched at his stomach.

“That sounds like what you would say when you’re high!”

Puck scowled at him.

“That’s my philosophy you’re talking about, Gigantor. It’s called the meaning of life, not that you’d know anything about that kind of deep thought,” he said sharply.

“Whatever, man,” Finn chuckled in response, shaking his head back and forth with mirth.

The taller boy unlocked his door and opened it, leaping out easily and slamming the door shut. Puck followed his lead, hitting the lock-button twice to lock up as he headed towards the front door. Finn had already gone in and, when he entered, the basement door was wide open.

Puck shrugged inwardly and tossed the keys on the counter, then headed downstairs.

Finn had been running on something almost like adrenapheline or whatever it was that made you feel like you were naturally high after hearing Puck’s “philosophy” when he made his way downstairs, crying out, “Kurt!”

There was no-one there.

…

What the hell?

He heard footsteps behind him and slowly turned to see Puck. Puck was looking around the basement, one hand jumping to his Mohawk when he realized its emptiness.

“Um…”

“He was here right?” Finn found himself asking. “Like…for real? Are you sure you didn’t get high and make all this up?”

Puck glowered at him.

“Lay off dude! Besides, you and me both got a text from Kurt saying he was going home. And that black diva chick I dated last year got one too.”

“Mercedes,” Finn supplied, frowning. “He’s not here though. And we had his car, so… Shit! If he was kidnapped or something Burt’s gonna kill me,” he groaned.

“I’m sure he wasn’t kidnapped,” Puck rolled his eyes. “He’s around here somewhere. Prolly just workin at his dad’s shop or something. You,” Puck enunciated, pointing at Finn whose leg was jumping with anxiety, “need to chill.”

Finn went around and slumped on his bed.

“I guess you’re right,” he said doubtfully.

Puck went over and turned on the game system, grabbing two controllers.

“’Course I am. I’m a stud.”

“And that means you’re always right?” Finn asked, smirking crookedly. Puck almost laughed when he spotted the barely-there glint of actual-question in his friend’s eyes.

“Hell yeah.”

“Whatever man,” Frankenteen chuckled.

Puck smirked in response and punched a button on his controller.

“C’mon, Let’s just play some Grand Theft Auto. I call player one.”

“Fine,” Finn replied. “But that means I get player one on Black Ops.”

“Deal.”

~X~~X~~X~

Kurt stroked his fingers over the aged wood of his mom’s old dresser, delicately lifting a perfume out of one of the drawers. He removed the lid and pressed his fingers, neverminding that one bore an open, still bleeding, cut, to the metal opening thoughtfully. As if in a dream, he found himself unscrewing the sprayer and placing his fingers over the top before turning it over and hissing automatically as the liquid lapped at his injury with ravenous ferocity.

Instead of jerking away, Kurt pressed his broken flesh closer still, relishing in the heat and the smell as it attacked him, washing away all the rest of his senses.

It felt almost as if he were purging away the sick from his blood, getting rid of everything wrong and transforming it right. It was almost as if he were purifying himself of his every flaw, letting them ebb away in the perfume flood.

Kurt’s hand trembled a bit, and he took a shaky breath, turning the bottle upright once more and releasing it. He then lay down beside it, and the dresser, his injured hand curled around the base of the perfume bottle, whilst the other wandered up to wind around the lowermost drawer-handle, holding it as tightly as he could.

He stayed like this for some time, gaze utterly transfixed, both focused and not, as he saw only wood and let the wood morph into a blurry nonentity of brown and black and darkness and light quietly obscured. He moved once only, to pull his mom’s old quilt about and over him in a swift, jerky motion, before resuming his position, though the blanket tucked over his head of course altered the sight.

Kurt wanted nothing more than to stay here forever, and let the blanket and the wood and his mother’s smell become his whole world. There was no higher priority for him at the moment really, not within this stretch of different space and time, this oddly parallel universe branch of life.

His hand ceased to burn and it was as if there was absolutely nothing but the warm aroma of his mom shrouding him, obfuscating the rest of the world until it faded out of existence completely.

The Earth he knew felt an alien planet in contrast to the universe he was now absorbed in.

Kurt found that he didn’t miss it. In fact, he doubted it was even possible to do so.

Well…he doubted it as much as one _could_ doubt anything on this atypical plane of existence- in a distant, muffled sort of way. 

Kurt was soon enwrapped in Hypnos’s tender embrace, his mother’s ghost closed around him in the darkness.

~X~~X~~X~

“I’m starving,” Puck groaned, tossing aside the controller.

Finn tossed his to the side as well, hands retreating to his grumbling stomach.

“Yeah, well so am I,” he retorted irritably.

Puck heaved a sigh and stretched his cramping muscles.

“It might be time to start searching for your brother,” he admitted reluctantly.

Finn nodded his agreement, once more looking worried.

“I hope he’s not hurt or anything,” he said quietly. “Burt would kill me.”

“ _Everyone_ would kill you,” Puck corrected with a yawn.

Finn pulled a face at that and stood as well, starting up the stairs to the main floor.

“They’d kill you too, though,” he said over his shoulder once he’d reached the top.

Puck jogged and jumped his way up to where Finn stood and snorted derisively at the other boy’s statement.

“Nah. I’m too much of a badass, man. They can’t take me worth shit. You, on the other hand…”

Finn glared and socked him in the shoulder.

“I’m stronger than you think. I punched you out at least three or four times last year, remember?”

Puck “pshhh”-ed at him, but didn’t bother trying to formulate any actual retort, instead opening the front door and venturing out onto the patio. Finn followed, glancing around haphazardly.

“Kurt?” Finn asked the empty air around him. Then, louder and longer, “Kur-rt.”

“C’mon Hummel,” Puck called to the sky, then the trees. “We’re hungry and we need your fairy ass to make us some food! Come on Hummel! Hummel! Kurt!”

“He’s not coming,” Finn frowned.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Puck spat, combing his fingers through his Mohawk. “Uch. I’m starved.”

“Me too. Faymished.”

Puck nodded his agreement.

“He’s your brother,” Puck said pointedly after a long pause of just staring into the empty night. “Don’t you know anywhere he’d go?”

Finn scowled.

“He’s not my real brother. It’s not like I’ve been around him forever or anything.”

“Yeah, but you’ve spent more time with him than me. And, I thought you, like, bonded or whatever during that ballad assignment that year.”

“We did,” Finn admitted. “But I don’t think…wait a second…There was a conversation, I remember, and we were talking about our parents and stuff, like his mom and my dad... And he said something about a…dresser, I think.”

“Okay, I’m gonna pretend that that’s totally not gay, because the Puckster’s in dire need of some fuel, but I’m gonna need you to repeat that for me later, ‘cause I can’t not make fun of that. That’s hilarious, dude.”

“Whatever,” Finn muttered in return, his crimson face making his humiliation and annoyance incredibly obvious.

Puck smirked, and followed Finn back inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Do you know where the dresser is?”

“Attic, I think…”

Puck nodded.

“Lead the way then.”

“That’s the problem,” Finn informed him glumly. “I don’t actually know where it is.”

Puck grimaced.

“Great…” he paused, and then added resignedly. “If you prep the George Foreman, I’ll grab the grilled cheese stuff out of the fridge."

“Cool. But what do we do about Kurt?” Finn asked anxiously.

Puck shrugged nonchalantly, already at the fridge and pulling out the butter and cheese

“Nothing. When Hummel’s hungry or whatever he’ll come down.”

Finn frowned, beginning to pull out plates as Puck slathered butter on bread.

“I guess.”

~X~~X~~X~

Puck was right. Kurt did come down.

At around three am to use the bathroom, eyes avoiding the mirror. Pad past the kitchen.

And then, he went right back upstairs.

And curled up exactly where he’d been before.

And fell right back asleep.

Only this time, he made sure to lock the attic door behind him.

~X~~X~~X~

Saturday morning found Finn Hudson-Hummel and Noah Puckerman sitting at the kitchen table and staring forlornly at the stove.

“This is so not cool, dude,” Puck told Finn irritably.

Finn sighed heavily.

“I know…Grilled cheese?”

Puck frowned for a long time before groaning and replying with an affirmative nod and “grilled cheese”.

The pair went to work, and eventually brought their finished sandwiches downstairs. Mere moments later, Kurt emerged from the attic like the living dead. He went to the bathroom and glanced briefly around the kitchen before once more going upstairs without anything to eat.

The process repeated twice more that day, and by nightfall Puck and Finn were sick of it. Both teens went to bed that night with murder on their minds.

Upstairs, Kurt Hummel jerked awake from yet another nightmare and clutched feverishly at his sweaty hair in the darkness, a single word ringing in his ears.

_Choice_

Sunday morning slid into place with a grim finality, the sky looking morose as Puck thundered about the house in search of the elusive attic door. Finn was hot on his heels with fists clenching and unclenching, the motion one of both immense anger and incredible nervousness.

At length, Puck approached the master bedroom that he and Finn had avoided on every other search around the house, and this time Puck wrenched the door open and stormed inside.

He and Finn spotted the dusty white steps leading up to a small platform and alcove right away and began to climb them, halfway up catching sight of a small rounded door.

Puck swung himself up onto the platform with experienced ease and strode to the door, grabbing hold of the handle and pulling hard.

Nothing. Not a budge. Not a squeak. Not even the click most knobs made when they were turned.

Puck scowled ferociously and slammed a fist onto the door.

“Get your fucking fairy ass out here, Hummel!”

“Come on, Kurt, this isn’t cool,” Finn yelled beseechingly.

When nothing happened, Puck snarled, took a few steps back, and launched himself at the smooth wood.

A thunk sounded with the impact, but nothing more.

Puck released a scream of pure rage and slammed his fists against the wood once more.

“I’m gonna break down this door, Hummel! Get out here! Goddammit! Come on! Get out here **_Fag_**!

Puck never saw Finn’s fist coming. He only felt it slam into his jaw. He was knocked off the landing, thankfully falling onto the bed and bouncing to the floor from there instead of anything else. Finn descended upon him and within seconds the friends were engaged in an all out brawl.

~X~~X~~X~

Kurt shivered in the dank closet.

“Please…”

“Shut up faggot! God, you’re such a girl,” Karofsky proclaimed irritably.

Kurt’s jaw tightened but he didn’t reply. He was tied to a bucket in the janitor’s closet and for some reason it felt like his entire body was aflame. Every time he pissed Karofsky off too much the other boy would pull out a long, curved knife and slash at him so that the point dug into a few centimeters worth of Kurt’s flesh before it was ripped out, chunks of skin pulling to the side with it.

Kurt was growing sick of fighting.

“Such a girl…Maybe I should check?”

Karofsky’s speech was oddly disjointed, but Kurt noticed not, despite the words having caught his attention.

He flinched violently away from the jock, spikes digging into his back.

Karofsky was suddenly on top of him, one hand on Kurt’s thigh, the other wrapped around his throat.

But this time the hand on his thigh didn’t stop there.

Kurt froze as Karofsky’s fingers crept beneath the waist line of his jeans, going down to grip him. The bully smirked and leaned in close.

“You need to make a choice, don’t you? Tell me what to do. You know you like this. You know it could be easier for you.”

Kurt swung his head back and forth fiercely.

“No!”

Karofsky’s hold on both his throat and his privates tightened and Kurt whined slightly with pain.

“You have a choice to make…” Karofsky grinned abruptly and Kurt’s entire body tightened at the look.

“Seems like your body’s made it for you doesn’t it fairy? **_Fairy ass. Hummel._** God, Hummel, you’re such a **_Fag_**!”

Kurt jerked awake with a violent cry just in time to hear a crash outside. He stood, trembling, and went to the door, unlocking it and staring down at the chaos that reigned below.

He clambered down the stairs, neither of the jocks paying him any mind, and walked slowly to the basement bedroom and his own bed. He wasn’t eager to sleep or anything like that, but his iPod was down here, and he figured he could use the distraction from what he knew tomorrow would bring.

It was fine though.

Kurt Hummel had made his choice.


	5. A Cliff Called Insanity

_“_ _It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.”_

_\---Chaos Theory_

…

 _“_ _There’s a ripple effecti_ _n all that we do. What you do touches me; what I do touches you.”_

 **_\---_ ** _Anonymous_

_~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~_

Kurt was laying down listening to his iPod and trying to force his head away from the situation at school when his headphones were ripped viciously from his ears.

His eyes flinched open to the sight of Puck and Finn both towering over him and, flashing back to the old days where both jocks had been his bullies instead of friends, he jerked back and tumbled off the bed with a shrill shout.

His head slammed into the wood and Kurt let out a loud groan as his injuries to his neck and head from the past Friday were aggravated.

Both Puck and Finn were staring at him, and it occurred to Kurt that he hadn't yet taken the time to put any creams or anything on his "battle wounds", let alone cover them up.

He winced at the looks the boys were giving him. Let that be a lesson on the importance of never shirking his duties to his dermis, even if he had been only neglecting his skin-care routines and general bruise covering-up because he had had a _**huge**_ decision to make. Kurt had often had a bit of a one-track mind about things, but he figured now that he really needed to stop letting himself obsess when it was evidently to the detriment of the rest of his life.

"Kurt…?" Finn asked. His eyes were wide.

Kurt snapped himself up from the floor, bitch-mask firmly in place.

"Yes?" he snapped.

Puck frowned at him.

"Why do you always do that?" he asked abruptly, voice low and raw-sounding.

Now Kurt was genuinely confused and the emotion took the edge off his cutting gaze for a moment before slipping back into the very furthest recesses of his expression. His chin jutted out a bit, tightening into a stubborn set as he seemed to catch onto what Puck was referencing.

"Do what?" he questioned, voice going sharper still, so that it dug into the mental flesh of not only Puck and Finn, but also himself; a double edged sword.

"That. You go all queen flamer bitch anytime someone tries to help you or talk to you, or you just shake stuff off like it's nothing, but it can't really be," Puck's eyes were narrowed now, and Kurt had the distinct feeling of being picked apart, despite the fact that Puck wasn't usually the kind of guy that cared enough about other people to actually analyze their behavior, at least not in Kurt's experience.

Though, really, he supposed that of all the kids in Glee club, Puck was one of the ones that would call things as he saw them. And in retrospect, he supposed Puck did pay attention to other people, to a degree. But they were people he thought were important, like Quinn, or Rachel, or Santana and Brittany, or even Mercedes. Not him. Not Kurt.

Anyway, Kurt was _not_ about to let Noah Puckerman start psychoanalyzing him. He didn't need that, not right now, and definitely not from the boy who used to daily thow him in a dumpster "with the other trash, where he belonged" and had otherwise tormented him through the majority of his high school career, in addition to pieces of middle school.

Kurt simply turned up his nose, fully aware of the irony of this action in light of Puck's apparent revelation, and haughtily said, "Sorry, fauxhawk, but in contrast to what your perhaps drug-induced delusions are apparently telling you, I happen to have no idea what you're talking about."

Puck snorted.

"You know, you think you're being strong and tough and fooling the world, Hummel, but really all you're doing is making things worse for yourself. Everyone can see through your mask and it only pisses them off that you always go through the effort of using it. It makes people want to hurt you more, you know, if only to see it break. Because you're always putting on that damn mask, and all anyone wants to do is tear it to pieces, rip it clean fucking off, and watch you fall apart. Why do you think you're such a big flaming target for everyone, Kurt? It's not only 'cause you're gay, like you think it is. It's more to do with the fact that you're you."

"Don't talk to my brother like that, man," Finn said fiercely, shoving Puck's shoulder with one hand.

Puck rolled his eyes and Kurt just stared at Finn, eyebrow arched in disbelief. As fond as he was of the boy, Finn had practically no spine, a fault that had only grown worse and more blatant with time. Him defending Kurt at all was definitely an unexpected turn of events.

Puck simply shoved back, looking annoyed.

"Oh yeah, so when it's me just telling him the straight up truth, you're all brother of the year, but when it's Karofsky threatening to smash his face in, you can't care less? Dude. You're such a fucking joke."

Finn's face reddened and he shoved back hard.

"Shut the hell up dude! You don't know what you're talking about! And I'm better than you. At least I'm not a-"

Kurt sighed. This was going nowhere but south, and fast. He'd have to step in.

This was all just so ridiculous. He didn't even really understand what they were fighting about, and he wasn't actually all that convinced that either of them knew either. If anything, it seemed to Kurt that they both were just looking to get mad and start a fight.

"Will you two please stop?" Kurt interrupted. "You're giving me a headache and probably, Dolce forbid, a plethora of future wrinkles."

When the jocks simply stared at him once again, Kurt groaned loudly and pulled himself up to stand.

"Stop that. There's no need for either of you to stare at me that way."

"Dude, your face-"

"Looks worse than it is," Kurt interjected, unable to refrain from falling back on his bitchy-tone, "And, once again, I am not dude."

"Would you rather people call you a chick?" Puck asked snidely.

Kurt scowled at him.

"I'd rather people leave me alone," Kurt replied loudly.

Then, without another word, he "hmph-ed" and stalked haughtily into the bathroom, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Once inside, Kurt sighed heavily and went to the mirror, examining his face morosely.

They'd been correct in their evaluations, evidently. It really did look pretty bad…

His neck had a ring of mild bruising just below the shadow of his chin. There were dark discolorations on his arms as well, in particular at the wrists, and a violet, black, and green splotch around his left eye where he supposed one of Karofsky hooks had caught him, though he barely remembered. His lip and a bit of his cheek were still slightly swollen, and dried blood still clung to the area. There was a bump on his forehead, probably from one of his collisions with the floor, and, raising a hand to pat at the top of his skull, Kurt was unsurprised to find yet another bump and even a bit of dried, sticky blood along the back and top of his head. From being slammed back into the wall so many times, Kurt supposed. He pulled a face at himself in the mirror. He looked utterly revolting, and… _uch, is that a pimple?_

Yes. Yes, it was.

' _Thank you, David Karofsky. You've now ruined my complexion, along with several pieces of my wardrobe and a fair amount of my life. Congratulations,'_ Kurt thought bitterly.

Kurt pulled his shirt over his head, deliberately avoiding the tarnished image of himself reflected back now, and went to retrieve two fluffy towels from the cupboard to his side, hanging them on the towel rack before reaching over to turn on the shower, spinning the dial to the hottest temperature it could possibly go. He tugged off his jeans with some effort and no small degree of pain, then, reluctantly, went once more before the mirror.

Kurt was grateful to realize the presence of only some fairly minor bruising along his torso and abdomen, the worst of which was nestled on his side and unfurled a bit onto his back to camouflage in with the rest of the usual bruising from his frequent locker checks, occasional dumpster dive, and a bit of otherwise random roughing up.

The majority of his back was typically covered in bruises that dipped slightly below his towel and reared up like a wave, splashing splotches of purple and green and yellow over the pale ridges of his upper shoulders and lower neck. There was a bit of scarring already, and he could tell he'd likely have more joining that fray soon, but such things had ceased to alarm him by this point.

Kurt frowned critically at himself, before straightening up and putting on his usual ice-king mask, examining the fabric of his façade for any possible weak points, any signs of wear and tear.

He had to be careful, for if this mask broke, if the material were to tear, or even a stitch or two were to pop from place, there would be no more. Kurt could not return his own face for store credit or a new one, and his survival was non-refundable.

Kurt rolled his eyes at the silly thinking and climbed into a hot shower, desperate to scrub his filth clean.

* * *

Somehow, Finn and Puck had gone from viciously fighting to deciding who was right with a game of Mario Kart, to good-naturedly bantering as they played video games, their brawl almost entirely forgotten in the haze of sore thumbs, awesome graphics, and about two tons worth of Doritos.

Kurt, meanwhile, was avoiding the jocks (though he'd already forgiven both Puck and Finn their oubursts earlier that day as he figured that he had bigger fish to fry and, if anything, could get back at both boys after he'd given Karofsky his answer), and taking the opportunity to bake his way to a clearer head. Knowing what he had to do tomorrow, he was most definitely on stress overload, and there was no way Kurt was letting Karofsky be the source of any major breakouts, in addition to the two white-heads he'd already caused to infringe upon Kurt's usually perfect complexion; Kurt could already feel a particularly massive break-out on the way to adding to his few blemishes after his days spent in zombieland, moping over a decision that really should have taken no time at all to make in the first place.

Well, Kurt was done with that.

He loaded the green pizza he'd made into the oven once it had beeped and set the timer to nine minutes, a nice crossway between the suggested eight to ten, then went about cleaning up the remaining spinach he'd substituted for arugula and the pieces of cheese that had managed to end up splayed over the counter.

Kurt tossed the pieces in the trash, before going about setting up to make a nice dessert in the time he had before the pizza was ready. If all went as planned, he could pop in the dessert, which was one of his personal favorites, right as dinner was coming out, and that meant no spare time to think about-

Kurt shook his head, pulling out a can of pure pumpkin and plopping it down next to the orange juice. A song. He needed a song.

He'd cycled through about five whilst preparing the pizza and waiting for the oven to finish pre-heating, then been mildly distracted putting it in and cleaning, momentarily absorbed enough in his task to forget about-

A song.

Right.

Kurt began to flour and grease two cake pans as he mentally scrolled through a playlist of good, relaxing songs, eventually choosing a particularly treasured one and humming the first few bars to the song his mom had so often sung to him before she died.

It had always been a personal favorite of Kurt's to sing around the house, as he could close his eyes and pretend his mom was there singing it with him, and would later be around to tell him the story of the song as she tucked him in to bed.

Kurt went over to the mixing bowl and beater and began putting in the necessary cake mix, eggs, and orange juice, singing as he began to beat the ingredients together on low.

" _I met a man without a dollar to his name_ _  
_ _Who had no traits of any value but his smile_ _  
_ _I met a man who had no yearn or claim to fame_ _  
_ _Who was content to let life pass him for a while_ _  
_ _And I was sure that all I ever wanted_ _  
_ _Was a life like the movie stars led_ _  
_ _And he kissed me right there, and he said,_

 _"I'll give you stars and the moon and a soul to guide you_ _  
_ _And a promise I'll never go_ _  
_ _I'll give you hope to bring out all the life inside you_ _  
_ _And the strength that will help you grow._ _  
_ _I'll give you truth and a future that's twenty times better_ _  
_ _Than any Hollywood plot."_ _  
_ _And I thought, "You know, I'd rather have a yacht."_ "

Kurt put his all into the song, eyes closing briefly to picture his mother standing beside him and singing along, a sad smile playing on her lips as she said the last line.

He sighed softly, pausing to pour in the pumpkin and increase the beater's speed, then began again, still imagining his mother at his side, or perhaps behind him, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder as a silent reassurance that she was here guiding him and making sure he didn't mess anything up too much.

" _I met a man who lived his life out on the road_ _  
_ _Who left a wife and kids in Portland on a whim_ _  
_ _I met a man whose fire and passion always showed_ _  
_ _Who asked if I could spare a week to ride with him_ _  
_ _But I was sure that all I ever wanted_ _  
_ _Was a life that was scripted and planned_ _  
_ _And he said, "But you don't understand."_

_"I'll give you stars and the moon and the open highway_ _  
_ _And a river beneath your feet_ _  
_ _I'll give you days full of dreams if you travel my way_ _  
_ _And a summer you can't repeat._ _  
_ _I'll give you nights full of passion and days of adventure,_ _  
_ _No strings, just warm summer rain."_ _  
_ _And I thought, "You know, I'd rather have champagne.""_

His lips turned up subconsciously as he spoke the last line, pouring poppy seeds into his concoction all the while, then began to pour the result into one of the pans, making sure there was enough remaining to fill the other one as well. Kurt, then, turned to the oven, which had turned off when it completed its job on dinner, and pulled out the pizza carefully, placing it gently atop the stove, before preheating the oven once again, this time to 350°.

_"I met a man who had a fortune in the bank_ _  
_ _Who had retired at age thirty, set for life._ _  
_ _I met a man and didn't know which stars to thank,_ _  
_ _And then he asked one day if I would be his wife._ _  
_ _And I looked up, and all I could think of_ _  
_ _Was the life I had dreamt I would live_ _  
_ _And I said to him, "What will you give?"_

_"I'll give you cars and a townhouse in Turtle Bay_ _  
_ _And a fur and a diamond ring_ _  
_ _And we'll be married in Spain on my yacht today_ _  
_ _And we'll honeymoon in Beijing._ _  
_ _And you'll meet stars at the parties I throw at my villas_ _  
_ _In Nice and Paris in June."_

_And I thought, "Okay."_ _  
_ _And I took a breath_ _  
_ _And I got my yacht_ _  
_ _And the years went by_ _  
_ _And it never changed_ _  
_ _And it never grew_ _  
_ _And I never dreamed_ _  
_ _And I woke one day_ _  
_ _And I looked around_ _  
_ _And I thought, "My God..._ _  
_ _I'll never have the moon.""_

Kurt put on a devastated whisper for the quote then let his voice swell up with loss and regret and understanding over the last lingering notes which dropped from the air, replaced by the oven beeping its readiness to receive the batter and turn it into the orange-pumpkin-poppy-seed cake he desired.

He was silent for a moment, listening to that last note continue to resonate in his head along with the sweet voice of his mother, Elizabeth Hummel, and then caught his breath and spun to grab the pans and put them in to bake. He put on the timer for thirty minutes, and, grabbing his plate of green pizza, sat down in a chair at the dining room table for a moment before he called in the guys, remembering quietly the tale his mother had always told him in conjunction with that song.

He'd always thought the story was amazing and brilliant, and he'd been unable to sing the song for a full two years after she had passed. And then one day he had, and his father had heard, and his dad had come and hugged him tight, something he hadn't done since the week after her funeral, and it had become a bit of a _thing_ for them, Kurt singing that song at least thrice a year, once for his mother's birthday, once for the anniversary of her death, and a last time for the anniversary of his parents' wedding day.

The first time she'd really told him the story was when Kurt was around three or four, right before they'd gone as a family to see his first musical: a stage production of Songs for A New World that his mom had said was his first because it was incredibly special to her and to his father and to the three of them as a family.

She then told him of how she had been dating his dad for about a year and a half when he had proposed. They'd just graduated from Lima High and she'd been getting ready to go to Hollywood in the hopes of making it big. She'd come from a fair amount of money, at least for a town like Lima, but she had dreamed of getting far more and didn't want her love for a boy named Burt Hummel to prevent her from attaining what she believed was meant to be her world.

Because of this, Elizabeth Perry had turned Burt down and taken the opportunity to flee straight to California, and the heart of her supposed dreams. A week in and desperate to get the scope of the theatrical culture present there that had not se emed to exist in Ohio, Elizabeth had gone to a local theatre where they were performing a musical she'd never heard of before. She hadn't actually been particularly impressed, and hadn't even been fully paying attention, until a girl came on the stage and began to sing of the stars and the moon and the life of glory Eliza herself so wanted, and, suddenly, his mom claimed, her whole life had flashed before her eyes.

She'd seen quite clearly the crossroads and the way her reality could be, how dazzling and lavish, and then she'd dashed from the theatre and gotten on the first flight to Ohio, ultimately driving three and a half hours from the airport in Cleveland to Lima, and from there straight to Burt's house.

She'd gone in, completely wild with fright and adrenaline, and had started to propose right when she'd found him, but of course he'd stopped her and said how he'd known she'd come back. Then, Burt had gotten down on one knee right along with her.

They'd been young, but deeply in love, and the next day they'd gone to an entirely different state, just to watch the play that had changed her mind (and ultimately, both of their set lives) together.

Kurt inhaled heavily, pulling himself from his reverie and calling out for Puck and Finn to come and get dinner. Now was not the time to dwell on the past. Had he not in some way been doing just that this whole, practically wasted, weekend?

Both boys bound up the stairs, but stopped short at the food, pulling faces. Kurt raised an eyebrow at their antics, and said, patiently, "Well, go on. Get a plate. Or would you rather eat it cold?"

"I'd rather not eat it at all," Puck muttered to Finn.

"I can make grilled cheese again," Finn suggested back, causing Puck to groan loudly.

"Is there anything actually edible in this place?" the mohawked boy complained, sidling up to the counter and picking up a plate, still making faces at the pizza even as he loaded a full five slices onto his dish.

"It's plenty edible, Puckerman. Finn." Kurt took a bite of his own slice. "Trust me on this."

"Okay," Finn replied slowly, "but if I die, Puck doesn't get my video games, 'cause I'm still a little mad at him."

"Finn, if you die from this, then Puck will as well," Kurt informed the jock with a long-suffering sigh.

"Just because you're gay and all that, does that mean you hate video games?" Finn asked, sitting down at the table.

Kurt nearly choked on his food, but just barely managed to stop himself, swallowing cautiously, before gingerly mumbling a "no".

"There's a few I actually quite like," he offered, taking a swig of diet coke.

"Cool, then you can have them," Finn said happily.

"He'd be dead too," Puck reminded the other boy with a grin. He was picking some of the vegetables off his pizza and trying to turn them into some sort of pornographic picture, from what Kurt could tell.

"Oh, right! Hey, Kurt, does your dad like-"

Kurt decided to zone the rest of Finn's question out, annoyance overpowering any modicum of amusement he may have received from the jocks' shenanigans.

Finn and Noah both acted like utter children, and Kurt felt as if he was being turned into their father at the moment, which was completely unfair seeing as his sexuality had made him resigned to the possibility of never raising kids long ago. If he didn't get to raise his own children someday (which he was still somewhat hoping he would via adoption, but figured that you never knew), then there was no way he should be forced to raise his step-brother and glee-mate either.

Despite this, Kurt was surprised that dinner was going as well as it was, honestly, after the blow up earlier today.

He'd expected to at least have to fend off a few questions about his now clear features, but evidently the oft-used phrase "out of sight, out of mind" was indeed true, and while Kurt was mostly relieved, a tiny part of him resented that his supposed friends, one of whom was supposed to be his brother now, weren't pushing any harder to find out what had happened.

Instead, they'd probably simply decided that he was right and it wasn't all that big a deal after all.

Kurt kind of wished that they'd proven him wrong, though, just a little bit.

The idea that they agreed that him being beaten up like that wasn't out of the norm, or perfectly okay even, _**hurt**_ **,** really badly, for some reason Kurt couldn't quite fathom.

Kurt finished off his pizza, pushing back the odd feeling of betrayal stabbing through his heart, and went to get his cake out of the oven, setting it to aside cool.

He shouldn't feel this way, not when their nonchalance was exactly what he wanted.

He couldn't have it both ways.

 _This is a victory,_ Kurt reminded himself. _Even if it doesn't quite feel that way. That's what it is and always has been. My hill to climb alone, my battle to fight, my demons to ward off. Just mine. I shouldn't be disappointed that they aren't fighting with me. I really shouldn't…So… I'm not. I'm happy and everything is fine. It's great actually. I'm glad that they've forgotten about it. It's all for the best. It's a good thing they're letting this be._

Kurt Hummel just had to remember that he was fine, that was all.

And that he could do this alone.

That was the way things must be done, and he should be used to it right now. He was a Hummel. He was strong. He could do anything by himself, and he would. Including this.

* * *

Kurt honestly wasn't surprised when he was pulled into another, thankfully different, janitor's closet, this time before first period instead of third.

"What do you want Karofsky?" he asked the older boy in annoyance, hands once more placed upon hips.

Karofsky rolled his eyes.

"Still being an ice-bitch then Hummel? That's just fine."

"I don't need your permission or anything," Kurt snarked back.

Karofsky laughed.

"Jesus, you are such a bitch! I'm nice to you and offer to let you have a little bit of say, and this is what I get? Damn. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you…"

Kurt scoffed.

"Deflate your ego please, before your head grows large enough to fill the entirety of this miniscule closet and I end up crushed to death."

Karofsky scowled.

"You calling me fat, homo?"

Kurt couldn't stop the small, maybe-slightly-hysterical, giggle that burst from his mouth, and he clamped his lips shut, eyebrows drawing together with the effort of keeping his mirth at bay.

"Actually I was calling you an egomaniac, with some spectacular emphasis on the latter part of that word now that I think about it. But, if that's all of my statement that could fit in the tiny bounds of your brain then sure." Kurt smiled for a moment, then frowned. "I'm saying no to your arrangement, by the way. As you should have gained from my very clear no the last time we were here. Now, you need to let me out of here, because of the two of us, I am clearly not the one who wants to be stuck in any closet."

Karofsky took another step forward, effectively cornering Kurt, who shrunk slightly on instinct before pulling himself back up to full height, chin jutting out stubbornly and jaw locked.

"What are you implying, Hummel?"

Kurt met Karofsky's gaze evenly, eyes narrowed and ice cold, excluding a small glimmer of fear bobbing in their depths, but did not deign to reply. He couldn't really. Panic was beginning to clog up his throat and terror closed in a vice-like grip around his vocal chords, his survival instincts and dysphoria temporarily choking off any potential retort.

Karofsky took yet another step closer, so that his large frame was pressed in close to Kurt's smaller one.

Kurt flinched slightly, and Karofsky smirked a bit, his eyes catching on the movement and remaining on the offending limb for several seconds. Kurt's teeth dug into the sensitive flesh of his lower lip, working to restrain the treacherous tremble that was now beginning to take hold.

"You calling me a fag?" he hissed out.

Kurt closed his eyes tightly and numbly shook his head.

He could feel every line of fury in the older jock, every tensed muscle, every jumping tendon.

Karofsky's hot, slimy breath was on him, tiny bits of saliva clinging to his porcelain skin.

"You're the fag, Hummel, not me," Karofsky breathed down on him.

Kurt shuddered.

"You're the prissy, cocksucking homo here. You were the one making eyes at me, swishing your fuckin ass around in those tight ass jeans, like some slutty chick. That's what you are: a whore. I'm just giving you what you want. It's not my fault you gave me your disease or whatever. That's all on you, Hummel."

A meaty hand landed on Kurt's waist, and he swallowed hard.

"I'm trying to be the good guy here, princess. No-one else will even really touch you, will they? But I will. I've already caught it from you, so I've got nothing to lose, right?"

Kurt's mind was a haze. He couldn't seem to understand what Karofsky was saying, the words garbled to his ears. The clearest thing in his world was the hand, that damn hand, heavy on his waist as a boulder pinning him to the ground, and growing heavier still as it slid slightly down and to the left, coming to a rest on the button of his jeans.

Later, though, later, he would be able to recall the words, every one of them, with stunning, sharp-as-a-dagger-through-the-heart clarity. They would ring in his ears for years to come, ghosts visiting in the night, along with several other words spoken, conversations exchanged.

_(Kurt would never be able to completely forget any of this, and a part of him wondered where it had all gone so wrong. When had things become this bad? And could he, or someone else, have prevented it? How close had he come to a world much better, and did the Kurt of that better life, simpler world, did he realize how close he had been to this living nightmare? Did anyone? They could perhaps be one door's opening away from one another, but even then they'd still somehow be worlds apart.)_

Desperation cleared the cement from his vocal chords, and Kurt whispered, "No. I told you I didn't want this. I don't want this."

Karofsky laughed and continued to finger the button at the top of Kurt's jeans.

"Yes you do, and we both know it."

Kurt shook his head slowly. No….

Karofsky abruptly flicked the button open, and dragged down the zipper. Kurt's breath grew ragged and he squirmed furiously, face growing red with anger and embarrassment.

"Stop it. Leave me alone! Just let me go, Karofsky, please, just let me go, and I'll never tell anyone. I'll stop wearing the tight clothes, and you'll never see me, and it will all get better, Karofsky, please," Kurt pleaded, the words tumbling out of him with an unhinged, almost animalistic, frenzy.

"I have to show you," Karofsky muttered, brow furrowed in concentration. "I have to show you…"

With that, the jock's hand slipped into Kurt's underwear.

Kurt couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. The hand that wrapped around him was calloused and rough and, gaga, but, he just couldn't breathe.

For the third time in a week, Kurt found himself in an alternate reality.

Everything was going fast and slow and was blurry and razor-clear and he was choking and sobbing, but _he wasn't breathing at all, or at least he didn't feel like he was_. If he could truly breathe, then why on Earth would he feel as though his chest was exploding and his head was splitting and his throat was completely caving in? Nothing made _any sense._

The jock's hand on him tightened, a thumb sliding over his head, and against Kurt's will he felt the familiar jerk at his insides as blood rushed downward.

If anytime had been right to cry, it would be now, but Kurt's eyes were as dry as his wit just then. His hardened flesh had never been exposed to the touch of anyone but himself, and the foreign feelings were overwhelming the small countertenor.

Kurt had never hated himself more than he did at that moment.

Revulsion and Humiliation pooled in his stomach along with the molten weight of impending orgasm.

He came hard and hateful in Karofsky's hand and the older boy smeared the fluid released on the inside of Kurt's Dolce and Gabana jacket, then gave the still-quivering countertenor a smirk.

"I told you," he said quietly. "You wanted it."

Kurt couldn't bring himself to reply, shame cascading over him in waves.

He wanted more than anything to say otherwise, but it now felt like maybe Karofsky was right and that had been a lie. Kurt knew logically that his body's reaction could not have been helped, but he had long been more emotionally-inclined, and all his emotions were saying that he was dirty and tainted and maybe a slut and that if he really hadn't wanted it, he wouldn't have reacted the way he did, would not have hardened in Karofsky's grasp or orgasmed at the sordid touch of his hand.

He didn't know anything anymore. His whole world had gone topsy-turvy, and Kurt could think of nothing to make it right.

Karofsky grinned and pressed a swift kiss to Kurt's stunned lips.

"See you around Kurt," he said casually, going to the door and unlocking it with his key.

Kurt shivered again and pulled himself in tighter, huddling inward. He reached into the darkness for his mask, his saving grace in this world and one of the only things allowing him enough distance to survive anymore, but found it gone.

Karofsky had surely stolen it just as he'd stolen Kurt's first kiss and, now, first sexual encounter.

He didn't know what to do.

The defiled teenager took a deep, shaky breath and sunk to the ground, eyes fluttering closed as his hand found his fly. He zipped his jeans up and buttoned them closed, then, feeling sick, he undid them once again. When the zipper had been pulled back down, Kurt grabbed blindly for a mop bucket, thrust it between his legs, and mercilessly threw up.

The heaving eventually gave way to dry sobbing that wracked his whole frame, leaving Kurt feeling completely drained and unwilling to move.

Kurt merely curled up on the dirty floor, utterly desecrated, and didn't emerge until he went home with an unexplained "stomach virus" halfway through third period.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song credit:   
> Kurt-- "Stars and the Moon" from Songs for a New World


	6. The First Step Off

_“_ _It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.”_

_\---Chaos Theory_

…

 _“_ _There’s a ripple effecti_ _n all that we do. What you do touches me; what I do touches you.”_

 **_\---_ ** _Anonymous_

_~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~_

_**"This is an automated notification from William McKinley High School informing you that your son, Kurt Benjamin Hummel, missed one or more classes on the date of November 23rd, 2010. Any further unexcused absences will result in a hearing. Thank you very much for being a Titan parent. Have a good day."** _

Burt Hummel groaned and rubbed at his forehead.

"What's wrong sweetheart?" Carole asked from the bed.

She was beautiful, hair slightly mussed from sleep, skin a soft golden-brown, already taking on the hue of tan, and eyes practically [glowing](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/6/Vibrato) with happiness.

It wasn't even just her eyes. Carole was, herself, absolutely radiant.

That was a trait, Burt recalled fondly, that Carole shared with his late wife Eliza. And Kurt, too.

Burt was surrounded with these amazing, special, glowing people, and he had to pause looking at his new wife to marvel at his luck there. He was, by no means, the luckiest man in the world, but Burt did figure, taking into account his new family, and his old one, that he was pretty damn close.

And then, the moment dropped away, faded abruptly into the background, and he rubbed a hand over the front of his bald head.

"It's Kurt," he sighed. "Apparently, he hasn't been going to school."

Carole frowned and patted the bed next to her, gesturing for him to join her. He did so with only the smallest of hesitations, a definite improvement from his usual aversion to outright displays of tenderness or emotion.

She noticed, as she always did, and smiled slightly at him, one hand extending to smooth affectionately over his face and then cup his neck.

"You've gotten better about that," she murmured, kissing his jaw tenderly.

"That a bad thing?" he asked gruffly, not bothering to conceal his smile.

She kissed the corner of an upturned lip.

"Not in the slightest." Voice brimming with love and assurance.

Her confidence, he found, was fantastic, and just about the sexiest thing in the world.

She'd been like that all along, but it had definitely gotten better with Kurt's makeover.

Kurt.

_Damn._

"I need to call him," Burt said unhappily. "I haven't done that so far, and I should have."

"He understands, honey. He and Finn both- they're big boys. We all said that for the first few days there would probably be very little contact, aside from letting them know we got home safely. We did that. We told Finn, and I'm sure he told Kurt as soon as he could, and that was it. I want to call them as well; I have for a while, but even more so now. But you are an amazing father all the time, and it's no-one's fault, and there's no-one to blame, when you play with just being an amazing new-husband. It's our honeymoon, Burt. We're not supposed to forget the kids, but we're also not supposed to freak out too much about them."

Burt nodded and smiled slightly at her.

"You may be right there, but I still need to call him…"

She smiled back, nestling her head into the crook of his shoulder.

"Absolutely. How about you and I take a short nap, maybe after engaging in some nice in-bed cardio for that heart of yours?" she winked, making him laugh. "And then when we wake up nice and calm and refreshed, we'll call the kids."

Burt stroked his fingers through Carole's silken hair, humming contentedly as his hand slipped down to her bare waist, and he turned on his side to press a kiss to her collarbone.

"That sounds perfect."

* * *

"Have you seen Kurt?"

Puck frowned at Finn.

"That's a question I'm hearing a lot these days," he grumbled. "Does Hummel always cause this much drama?"

Finn shrugged.

"I guess," he mumbled. "Rachel's going to be so mad…which means no making out."

Puck snorted.

"That's what you get for dating an annoying bitch."

Finn slouched slightly in his seat.

"Kurt's such a cockblock now," he griped irritably. "And I can't even be too mad at him about it, 'cause I'm still kinda worried."

Puck nodded, fingers straying upwards to pick at the front of his Mohawk.

"Have you tried calling him?"

"Five or six times already," Finn replied, a crease forming between his eyebrows. "He won't pick up."

Puck actually looked worried now, too.

"Think something's happened to him?"

Finn didn't reply, sliding his phone from his pocket and scrolling through his contacts. He pressed the call button on Kurt and waited through the seven rings, one knuckle slightly clenching and unclenching. He paused briefly as Kurt's voice came on telling him politely to leave a message and he'd get back to him, finger poised over the 'end call' button. But, instead of ending the call, his knuckles simply clenched over the phone then moved down to curl around the bottom of his chair, and he blew out a breath.

"Kurt, hey it's Finn. Again. Listen, Please call me back dude. C'mon. I'm getting pretty worried. So is Puck."

Puck shot him a half-hearted glare that Finn blatently ignored.

"You know, you're kinda going to be a really big cockblock too, cause we all know Rachel's going to be pissed if you don't show at Glee again, and that's not cool, bro, since she only recently started letting me touch her boobs, and they may not look like much, but they're surprisingly awesome."

Puck smirked broadly at his side, and nudged Finn, whooping loudly and exclaiming "Get some!"

Finn beamed momentarily, before remembering himself, and stumbling out a quick, "What was I saying? Um….Shit…Oh, right! So, Rachel's going to be pissed already, and Mr. Schue was giving you that chance to audition for a solo, and since you're always on about how rarely you get them and how we always take your talent or whatever for granted, it's really messed up that you can't even-"

A second beep cut him off and Finn glared truculently at the offending source, before turning his pout on Puck.

"Told you so."

Puck rolled his eyes and strummed absently at his guitar.

The door suddenly swung open and both boys turned to stare at the intruder(s).

Rachel and Mercedes were both bickering back and forth over solos at sectionals in two weeks, with Artie trailing behind them looking particularly annoyed. He caught Finn and Puck's eyes and mouthed something like "shoot me", before miming gagging and then a gun to his head, of which he then proceeded to "pull the trigger".

The pair snorted in response, catching the instant attention of both divas, and Rachel rushed over to him, hands on her hips.

"Have you seen Kurt?" she asked loudly, taking on her no-nonsense, I'm-the-boss tone.

Finn darted a beseeching glance at Puck, who merely shrugged, and said, "He brought us here this morning."

"He wasn't in first period, though," Artie said with a frown. "My friend Cole from AV club was assigned to work with him in that class, and he was complaining to me in second that since Kurt wasn't there he had to try and do all the work. And since it's art and they're doing decade pieces, he really needed Kurt's help for the whole fashion aspect."

"You don't think Karofsky did anything?" Sam asked as he entered, anxiety wrinkling his face.

Mike, who had entered with Tina from behind the blonde, shook his head.

"Karofsky has second period with me. He came in late, but he had a pass from the office and everything. He said he'd been in the nurse's with a stomach ache."

"Yeah," Tina chimed in her agreement. "Besides, I know Kurt's fine. So you guys don't have to worry about it."

All eyes turned instantly on the Asian girl, who shrunk slightly against Mike's shoulder, but smiled and nodded at their questioning looks nonetheless.

"Kurt and I usually have fourth period together, and we sit next to each other, with my other friend Julie. I was wondering where he was, and Julie said she'd been in the nurse's for a little bit during third because she had an asthma attack, and Kurt came in and said he'd been throwing up and stuff. Said he had a stomach virus or something. And, since the nurse was so busy, she just gave him a pass to go home and said to feel better. Julie said he looked really bad, and his clothes were all rumpled up, but he was just sick so we don't have to go freaking out."

Rachel frowned.

"Kurt needs to be taking better care of his immune system, with how sick he's been lately. We're all a part of this team, and with sectionals coming up, we can't afford to have anyone lagging."

Mercedes scowled.

"Hell to the no. You need to shut your diva-ass for a minute. Look, Kurt and I may not be as close as usual lately, but he's till my boo, and you blaming him for being sick is not cool with me."

Rachel turned to Mercedes, one eyebrow raised sharply, looking oddly Kurt-like.

"If he's your boo, then why was it me who noticed how off he's been lately? And I'd like to point out that it was also me who actually tried to take steps to stop what was going on with Karosky. Stress weakens the immune system, you know? And that went on for a long time before even I decided to intervene."

Mercedes growled a bit, eyes narrowing. There was a slight glint of shame in her expression as she lashed out with a, "I _will_ cut you, white girl. Do not make me take you to the carpet."

Rachel simply smiled condescendingly, though she did back up a bit.

"Rachel," Puck barked as Santana, Quinn, and Brittany walked in. "You were the one who called us all in here during lunch for an emergency meeting, and now you're just wasting our time. Will you just get to the fucking point?"

"My point," she said airily, "is that we can't work as a team if any one of us is so off. Our individuality is supposed to unite us into a well-oiled machine, of which we are all a working part. While Kurt is going to be just in the background, probably, my back-up needs to have the awareness to both listen to me in awe, and still harmonize properly. If Kurt's ill all the time, he's not going to be able to do that, and, in that case, we're going to need to have someone else to take his place."

This sparked a series of loud objections, and Mercedes went to rush at the Jewish diva, just barely being held back by Mike and Tina.

Quinn took out a nail file and began working on her nails, while Santana went to sit in the row above Puck, shoving at Rachel as she passed her. Brittany turned wide eyes on Puck, who groaned and moved a seat over, so that he was sitting next to a red-faced Finn. Brittany smiled brilliantly at Puck then leaned back in her chair, and smiled over her shoulder at Santana, who hooked pinkies with her and began braiding a bit of blonde hair with her other hand. Artie rolled next to Brittany and twined his fingers with hers, not seeing the glower sent his way by the fierce latina sitting just above his girlfriend.

The group as a whole turned exasperated eyes on Rachel, when the girl loudly cleared her throat.

"What do you want, dwarf?" Santana asked irritably.

Rachel sighed.

"Look, I'm not saying we should replace Kurt or anything, but the fact of the matter is there are only twelve of us right now. I'm sure you all remember the debacle at sectionals last year?"

At Sam's look of confusion, she swiftly amended with an, "except for Sam."

Murmurs of acknowledgement and nodding rippled through the small group.

"Exactly," Rachel said. Then, to Sam, "last year at Sectionals everything hit the fan all at once. Finn quit Glee, leaving us with only eleven members, and we had to drag along Jacob Ben Israel and try to teach him our entire set list, including choreography, in a matter of just a few hours. It was a disaster."

"But you guys won, didn't you?" Sam asked, his face twisted with perplexity.

"I came back and saved the day at the last second," Finn informed the blonde.

Sam frowned, but nodded, muttering, "And I thought McKinley's been dramatic while _I've_ been here..."

"Oh, you don't know the half of it," Tina told him warmly, Mike nodding vigorously at her side.

"That's all beside the point, though," Rachel informed them. "What I was trying to point out is that it would probably be good to recruit at least one additional member, in case Kurt, or anyone really, gets sick again. That way we don't have to try training in Jacob again. Nobody wants that, do they?"

"I'd end up pounding the nerd," Puck offered honestly. "Only didn't last year, 'cause all the drama with Finn and Quinn and…"

Puck cleared his throat as his mind caught up with his mouth in the nick of time, and everyone shifted uncomfortably, several eyes darting to Quinn as the unspoken "Beth" seemed to resound through the room.

Quinn frowned, but continued to studiously examine her nails, the only other sign of her upset the way one manicured nail began to dig deeply into a smooth palm. Puck took a deep breath, one hand fisting the back of his mohawk, and continued what he'd been saying, as if the moment had never happened in the first place.

"I was too distracted last year for Israel to get on my nerves too much."

"Me too," Brittany volunteered. "Me and Santana were distracted because of how everything was falling apart, and neither of us wanted to screw Glee up, but we were anyways, since I didn't want Coach Sylvester to sew together my toes and put me upside down. It'd make dancing really hard…" Brittany frowned unhappily at the thought. "Motocross too. And probably walking…" Brittany turned to Artie. "Do you think I could walk with my head?"

"But if that happened again," Puck cut in to the general room's relief, "I'd totally not be able to hold back from laying the smack down on his jew-fro'd ass."

"I'd probably stab him with a stiletto," Santana shrugged.

"But what do we do?" Artie asked. "I mean, we don't exactly have people lining up to join the glee club."

Finn frowned.

"I'm not really sure Kurt's gonna like this," he muttered.

Everyone ignored him.

"Well, Puck, you're supposed to be a badass, aren't you?" Mercedes asked.

"Ok course," Puck exclaimed, looking offended. "Haven't you seen my guns?"

He stood and began flexing.

Mercedes crossed her arms over her chest.

"Well then prove it," she told him shortly. "Why don't you try talking to some jocks about it? Some of them might actually listen to you."

"Of course they would," Puck scoffed, though his eyes had scrunched up in slight concern at her words. "I'm a stud."

"Good," the diva smiled. "Then it's decided. And that takes care of business doesn't it, Rachel?" she didn't wait for an answer, instead hooking an arm through Tina's and saying, "C'mon T. I'm hungry and they're serving pizza and tots in the caf today."

The goth nodded in response and stood as well, offering a hand to her boyfriend, who swiftly took it.

The three of them left the choir room with Mercedes and Tina talking about spam-calling and texting Kurt until he picked up, so they could see how he was.

They were quickly followed by Sam and Quinn, then Santana, Brittany, and Artie.

"I bet they're having threesomes," Puck said wistfully, staring after the latter group.

Rachel sighed loudly.

"Please make yourself useful and get to recruiting, Noah," she told him sharply.

Puck rolled his eyes, but stood nonetheless, slinging his guitar over his back.

"Dude," he told Finn, "your girlfriend sucks."

Finn nodded.

"I know," he sighed. Rachel slapped his arm and he pulled back to rub at the injured spot, pouting.

"Hey…." He whined at her.

Puck smirked.

"Whatever. I'm outtie."

And then he, too, retreated.

Rachel's hands replaced Finn's in rubbing at the spot, and she smiled at him.

"Sorry about that."

"It's cool," Finn told her. "I shouldn't have said you sucked."

Rachel gave him a fond look.

"That's okay, Finn."

He grinned.

"You're the best," he told her happily.

Rachel scooted her chair closer to his and put her head on his shoulder.

"We haven't seen each other as much lately," she sighed sadly.

Finn nodded, wrapping an arm around her, and letting his hand dangle over her shoulder, as close to her breast as he dared go at the moment. If he just moved a finger an inch or two while she was talking…

"—and my Dads are looking at going on the Rosie O' Donnell cruise soon, so a little bit after your parents come back, mine will be gone and…Finn, are you listening to me?"

Finn nodded, wiggling a finger so that it grazed the corner of her right breast.

"Of course. You were saying something about a cruise. Or was that booze? …twos? Lose…"

Rachel exhaled heavily and Finn's eyes moved from her boob to her face quick as lightening.

"Sorry," he mumbled, sucking in his bottom lip and chewing it.

Rachel frowned.

"You know, we're not going to get much work done if all you can do is stare at my chest," she informed him firmly.

He nodded, gaze slipping momentarily back to the Promised Land, then returning to the glittering brown of her irises.

"I can't help it if your boobs are awesome," he told her seriously. She blushed.

"Come on, Finn, Let's go get some quick lunch before the bell rings," she said patiently. "But you owe me an amazing duet sometime this week, in addition to two dates, at least one of which I'd like to be at the movies."

He flashed her yet another crooked grin.

"That's cool."

Rachel smiled brilliantly, and they left together, his arm around her neck, fingers brushing over the side of a breast. Rachel gave him a knowing look and leaned in a bit closer, but otherwise didn't acknowledge the forbidden touch, instead choosing to spout of on another long-winded speech about her portfolio and how by the time she graduated, not a single university or college would even consider turning down the incredible Rachel Berry.

Finn only beamed, and nodded a lot, like he did whenever Rachel started one of her long-talking sessions.

His girlfriend was awesome.

* * *

51 Missed Calls. 113 text messages. 35 voicemails.

Kurt groaned loudly and tossed his phone to the side, pressing his face into his pillow. Then, as his stomach once more started roiling, he wrenched himself up off the bed and darted into the bathroom, dry-heaving several times over the toilet, tears of pain and exertion collecting around the rim of his lower lid, ready for the fall but being invisibly restrained as Kurt worked to keep himself together.

He could handle this.

He'd been sick off and on for the past several hours, and it had gotten to the point where he doubted he'd ever be able to remove the feel of sick from his mouth or throat.

At least this made his whole "stomach virus" thing a lot more viable, of course.

Kurt moaned softly and pulled his knees to his chest, curling in around the cool porcelain.

He felt s _o sick…_

* * *

Finn and Puck caught a ride with Rachel and her Dads, both of whom cast disapproving looks at the pair of them, but were generally quite pleasant.

Finn always felt a little awkward around them, and now was no exception. If anything, with his friend by his side, the awkwardness was worse than ever.

It wasn't like Finn had a problem with gays, or anything.

He was friends with Kurt, after all.

…It was just….Weird.

Strange.

Very much _not-normal._

And seeing two guys acting like husband and wife, except not, and more like husband and husband, kinda creeped him out.

Of course, Finn would never tell Rachel that. Or Kurt or Burt, for that matter.

He didn't think it was bad or anything, just… _ **weird**_. And maybe a little gross to think about…

And Rachel's dads weren't like Kurt, where you could just look at him and know. Nor did either of them look the least bit like chicks.

One was black and more on the muscular side, like he'd been into sports, or maybe dancing or something. He had a deep, rich voice, and practically exuded authority. The other was skinnier, and pale, and he was more on the goofy side: a regular, everyday class clown sort of guy, but just gay, as well.

Finn had some trouble reconciling the pair of them with his idea of gay, but he was starting to get used to it a little more these days.

They were dropped off at the current Hudmel house and hurried up to the door, Finn bidding Rachel goodbye with a quick, nervous kiss, while her dads critically looked on.

He always felt weird with them around for that reason also. They were so proud of Rachel, and how amazing she was, that Finn always felt like they didn't think he was good enough for their precious baby star.

He waved goodbye, throwing a thank-you over his shoulder, and ran to the door, which Puck was in the process of unlocking.

Finn hurried to the basement and down the stairs, while Puck grabbed them a snack.

Kurt wasn't in bed.

"What the-…Not again," Finn said tiredly.

He groaned and threw his backpack to the floor, before starting over to the bathroom to take a quick whiz.

Finn was in the process of unzipping himself when he caught sight of Kurt curled around the base of the toilet, looking flushed and sick.

He cried out in surprise and jerked his zipper back up, only narrowly avoiding catching any material or, Cheesus forbid, skin.

Puck came in quickly behind him, then doubled over laughing.

"Dude, no way," he chortled.

"Sh," Finn hissed. "He's sleeping."

"I can see that," Puck laughed. "Dude, were you just going to like pee on him or something?"

Finn glowered.

"I didn't see him," he pouted.

Puck grinned. "Whatever, man. But I'm so telling him when he wakes up."

Finn's eyes widened and he shot a look at Kurt's sleeping form.

"He'll kill me," he said plaintively.

Puck snorted derisively.

"Hummel's like seven inches shorter than you dude. And he weighs maybe 140 soaking wet. You're like 190 at least."

"So? He could put something in my food," Finn pointed out grumpily. His eyes grew comically wide all of a sudden and Puck gave him a questioning glance.

Finn sucked in a breath.

"Last night, do you think the food really did get him sick, like we were saying?"

Puck's face crumpled with mirth.

"Dude, Frankenteen, if that was what got him sick, we'd be sick too."

Finn frowned.

"Maybe not…I mean, Kurt's delicate, right? So, like, maybe it only affected him…"

Puck snorted loudly, then sputtered a bit as the action inadvertently managed to mess with his air.

"Nope. Hummel's still a dude. Aren't you, Hummel?" Puck nudged Kurt with his foot. "Wake up and tell Finn you're not a girl, Hummel."

Kurt groaned and tossed his head, letting out a soft whimper.

Puck knelt and put a hand on Kurt's forehead.

"I think he has a fever," he told Finn, who was staring at him in surprise.

Taking in the expression, Puck's eyes narrowed.

"You best not be questioning my badassness right now," he said dangerously.

Finn shrugged.

"You're the one feeling Kurt's forehead."

"I've had to take care of Sarah when she was sick before," Puck said haughtily. "If anything, it just makes me more of a stud, instead of a plain dumbass like you. Do you know how sexy chicks think it is when a hot piece of ass like me takes care of someone? Super sexy. So sexy that it's like nature's way of giving a chick whatever the female version of viagra is. It gives them a _major_ girl-rection."

Finn held his hands up in surrender, and Puck turned his attention back to Kurt.

"I'm gonna have to carry him to his bed," he said decisively. "It's best not to wake him up."

"Okay," Finn said quietly.

Puck lifted Kurt into his arms, and stood carefully.

"Gonna need you to open the door for me, man," he told Finn when the taller boy didn't move.

Finn nodded hastily and hurried to do so. He followed Puck out into the bedroom, watching the Mohawk-ed jock place the countertenor carefully on top of his bed, then drape a lighter blanket over him.

When Puck stepped away, Finn frowned at him.

"Why'd you do that?" he asked carefully.

"What?" Puck asked defensively, looking annoyed.

"That," Finn jerked his head in Kurt's direction, "You took care of him."

"He may be pissing me off lately, and he may be like the most flaming of queers, but Kurt's my boy," Puck informed him hotly. "And if he's sick, I'll make sure he's okay. I've done it for Sarah thousands of times. It's not like it's a big deal or anything."

Finn nodded.

"Okay."

"Good," Puck replied sharply. "Now, why don't you go piss like you were gonna, and I'll go get some chips and a few rags."

"Rags?" Finn asked with a frown.

"Wow," Puck laughed. "You really don't know shit, do you? I can soak rags and put them on Hummel's forehead to bring down the fever."

Finn nodded again.

"Okay," he said doubtfully.

Puck shoved him lightly, and made his way upstairs.

* * *

Kurt woke from his nightmare at just before seven p.m. to the sound of the phone ringing loudly.

He panted heavily, trying to calm his racing heart as Finn paused whatever game he and Puck had been playing and went to answer it.

Puck came over to Kurt, and offered a hand, which Kurt regarded suspiciously.

"You're sick," Puck told him. "I'm a total badass, but I do have a heart, y'know?"

Kurt sighed and took the proffered hand.

"I know, Noah," he said softly, his voice scratchy from a day's worth of throwing up.

He leant heavily on the jock at first, and was surprised to observe that the other boy paid the action no mind, instead dutifully helping Kurt stagger up the stairs.

"Actually, he's here now," Finn said, casting Kurt a look as he approached.

Kurt frowned, and Finn mouthed "your dad". Kurt nodded, wide-eyed, then stopped when the action made him feel a bit dizzy.

He took the phone from Finn, and inhaled sharply as his father's voice hit his ears and his knees went a bit weak.

Kurt took the phone into the living room, perching carefully on a cushion as he listened to his dad telling him that the school had called a bit ago, informing him of Kurt's absence.

Kurt had completely forgotten his school did that.

He'd also forgotten how good it felt to hear his dad's voice, and when he was asked, so concerned, "Is everything okay down there, Kurt?", he wanted nothing more than to tell his Dad everything.

But then, Karofsky's words.

" _ **You wanted it."**_

Ringing in his head.

Kurt remembered his jacket, buried beneath two trash bags in the bin outside, with cum smeared inside of it.

His cum. Kurt's. From Karofsky's hand bringing him to orgasm.

And Kurt was so, so ashamed, and he knew that he could never tell his wonderful, supportive, so strong, so happy, so amazing, _so sick_ Dad anything about what had happened.

"Everything's absolutely fine. Uneventful, really. I skimped slightly on my vitamins the past couple days, though, and it seems that my immune system took a bit of a hit. I'm okay, of course, just a little under the weather. Probably a twenty-four hour thing," Kurt lied.

"Okay, buddy. Just try to let me know next time, alright?"

"Of course," Kurt assured his father. "Evidently the lack of vitamin A is also making me a bit scatterbrained. I apologize for forgetting earlier."

Kurt's dad laughed, and the sound made his chest ache.

It also solidified exactly why his father could never find out.

"As long as you say so, kiddo. I've missed talking to you."

"Me too, Dad," Kurt sighed, closing his burning eyes tightly.

"How have you and Carole been? Is it as nice there as it's supposed to be?"

"It's better," Burt said happily. "Carole and I have been having an amazing time. We were actually talking about extending our stay a week or so."

"You should," Kurt said firmly, though the words left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. "You've got plenty of vacation time saved up and it's really good for your heart to be away for a while. You deserve a break, Dad."

"Well, we're definitely thinking about it, but I don't know if either Carole or I really want to leave you and Finn alone by yourselves for that long."

"We're both fine, Dad. Puck's staying over, so we're not completely alone. And Ernie's stopping by for dinner this Friday I think. We're all big boys. I've got the shop handled too. You and Carole just take your time, alright?"

Kurt really wanted to see his dad, but he didn't want to be selfish. His dad was always so amazing about everything, and Kurt was so much to handle in general. He wanted to give back a little here.

And maybe there was a small part of Kurt that was scared to see his Dad again after what had happened. Scared his dad would look at him and just know, and would think that Kurt was sick and disgusting as well. Or maybe even just damaged, which he was now. _Damaged Goods_...

The longer the honeymoon lasted, the better, really.

"Okay, well, we'll see. I'll be checking in tomorrow too, to see if you're feeling any better, but I've got to go for now. Carole and I have reservations. Tell Finn we say goodnight, alright buddy?"

"Sure thing, Dad."

"Kay. Love you kid."

Kurt bit his lip. Hard. A tear tore loose from his death grip on sanity and meandered down his pale cheek.

"Love you too Dad," he murmured.

The dial tone was his only answer.

Kurt swallowed heavily and ended the call, sliding the phone into his lap and muttering a soft, "Bye."

That was it then.

There was no going back now.

Kurt could feel, for a glimmer of an instant, the weight of a thousand future lies, all heavy on his heart and brow.

Then he pulled himself up and went to join Finn and Puck in the kitchen.


	7. And 3, 2, 1-

_“_ _It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.”_

_\---Chaos Theory_

…

 _“_ _There’s a ripple effectin all that we do. What you do touches me; what I do touches you.”_

 **_\---_ ** _Anonymous_

_~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~_

Finn glanced over at Kurt.

The smaller boy still looked sick and his hands were taut on the steering wheel as they pulled into the parking lot. His face was wan, and he was breaking out a bit on his chin. His eyes had been verging on closed ever since they'd all woken up, and had been fluttering almost nonstop in the past five minutes. He seemed legitimately exhausted.

Not only that, but Kurt's brown hair had gone barely combed and been left to air dry instead of blow. It was sticking in pieces to his sweaty forehead.

Worst of all, his clothes didn't match. Like at all.

They were also completely wrinkled, and Finn could swear that this was Kurt's second time wearing that exact sweater and scarf combination this week, despite Kurt's once telling him that you shouldn't even do that twice in two weeks. If it were anyone else, Finn would certainly not have noticed such a faux-pas, and even more certainly would not have cared, but this was _Kurt_ , and Kurt wasn't like everyone else. Kurt wasn't like _anyone_ else.

Something was wrong.

Kurt parked and they all began to get out, when Kurt's phone went off the way it did for a text.

Finn was just going around to the trunk with Puck, so they could grab their gear for early morning practice, when he heard a choked cry. Finn and Puck were both at Kurt's side in an instant, Puck reaching for Kurt's forehead automatically, and the countertenor jerking furiously away, dry heaving hard on the asphalt of the parking lot, one hand covertly gripping his phone to his chest.

"Hummel, you shouldn't be here," Puck said loudly, grabbing hold of Kurt's arm and hauling[](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/7/Vibrato) him to his feet.

Kurt shook his head, mumbling something under his breath about courage and winning. Puck scoffed.

"You're pushing yourself too hard man. That's got to be what this is."

"Yeah, Kurt," Finn spoke up, shifting his weight uncomfortably as his step-brother glowered at him. "Rachel was talking yesterday, you know how she gets, and she was saying you're probably sick all the time lately 'cause you're so stressed. That's why we're looking for someone to replace you in case."

Kurt's head shot up, mouth opened in a big 'o', then snapped shut with an audible click as Finn winced and covered his own mouth.

"Sorry," the jock muttered through his fingers. "I didn't mean it like that."

"What did you mean, then?" Kurt snapped.

"Calm down, Hummel," Puck said sharply. "It wasn't a big deal so you don't need to have a diva-freak-out or whatever."

"I don't, huh?" Kurt asked icily. "Well, if it's no big deal, then why don't you tell me what he's talking about, Puckerman?"

"Berry just pointed out yesterday that regionals-"

"Sectionals," Kurt interrupted irritably.

"Whatever. S'all the same anyways," Puck continued with a shrug of nonchalance. "Anyway, since sectionals is coming up, Berry said we should try to recruit someone else to join the team so if anyone gets sick like you've been doing then we don't have to drag along Israel and try to quickly teach him everything like last year. I was actually gonna try talking to some of the guys on the team this morning."

Kurt's face fell momentarily as he saw the logic in those words, but his mask of arrogant stoicism snapped back into place, or at least he hoped it did.

"I suppose that makes sense," he managed to say, sniffing in as condescending a manner as he could manage. His eyes unintentionally fluttered shut as he did so, and he staggered slightly where he stood.

Puck actually laughed.

"Okay, I'm just gonna take you home."

"No," Kurt pronounced loudly. "I'm fine."

"Kurt," Finn said slowly, "you're sick. And we're trying to help, but…"

"I'll take you home," Puck interrupted.

It was suddenly obvious to Kurt that Finn and Puck had discussed this already, and had been anticipating it.

"Then Puck and I will spend a few days at Puck's place," Finn continued quietly. He was mostly avoiding looking at Kurt, only glancing his way quickly twice, and not once making direct eye contact.

"I haven't been there in a while, and I need to check up on stuff with my Ma and Sarah, so this isn't just for your sake or anything like that, Hummel. You should know that."

Finn frowned vaguely at Puck's words, brow wrinkled as he proceeded with, "Yeah, it's not just about you, but you are a part."

At Kurt's glower, Finn hastened to elaborate: "See, you do all this stuff around the house and everything, like cooking and cleaning and whatever, and you were still doing that last night, even though you looked pretty bad, and if Rachel's right, which," Finn sighed, "let's face it, she's always right, not that I have a problem with that since I love her and she's awesome and she's starting to let up on the whole prude thing a little bit, which really rocks…what was I…? Oh, right. Right! So, if Rachel's right like always, so…not if, but, like, because Rachel's probably right and you're getting sick all the time because you're stressed, then we'd only be making you more stressed," By this point Puck was leaning against the side of the Navigator with a look of boredom and the slightest edge of annoyance, "so, we're just gonna let you spend the rest of the week by yourself and let you de-stress."

"We'll be back Friday," Puck informed Kurt, cutting in just as Finn opened his mouth, evidently intent on continuing.

Kurt swallowed hard, looking between the two boys, Finn's expression earnest; Puck's bored and a little impatient.

What could he say, really?

Sure, he was stressed, but it had pretty much nothing to do with either Puck or Finn. Kurt was, himself, the problem, in addition to-…

Basically, the guys weren't the issue; in fact, they had lately been providing welcome distraction.

But…maybe they were right. It might be nice to not have to worry about hiding his injuries, or making a dinner every night that was both healthy and relatively pleasing aesthetically.

If anything, the only reason Kurt at all wanted to fight this as badly as he did was so he wouldn't have to be entirely alone and…and because, looking at their faces, he could tell he didn't really have much choice in this matter. Both Puck and Finn had already made their decision, and Kurt resented that once again he was left with no control, in a matter that actively involved him.

He was growing sick of it.

Kurt scowled at them.

"Fine, do whatever you want. But you," this was directed furiously at Puck, "are not driving me home."

When Finn opened his mouth to object, Puck simply cracking his knuckles, Kurt directed a searing look at the both of them.

"The navigator is mine. My baby, my rules. I don't care what you two do, you want to leave me alone, then whatever. It's your prerogative to do so, just as much as it's my prerogative to drive my own car, and to stipulate who does and does not get to be inside of it. Finn, when you return on Friday, your car will be completely fixed and ready to go. As will Puck's. The both of you can work out which of the two you'll be using, but that's your business. From here on, my baby is off limits to your grubby, unmoisturized hands."

Kurt wrenched the keys from Puck, who looked ready to hit him, and ignored the way Finn's jaw hung open, his lips undulating up and down as if trying to formulate words and, more, objections, that would not come.

"Kurt-" Finn started finally as Kurt opened the Navigator's door and leaned in to place his satchel neatly on the passenger seat and re-affix his iPod to its pod*.

"I'll see you in Glee tomorrow," Kurt interrupted his step-brother, sliding his hand into his pocket and letting his thumb glide over the screen of his phone. Nausea burned his stomach and bile clung acrid at the inside of his throat, sidling slightly upward before he pushed it back down.

It looked like Finn wanted to say something else, but Kurt closed the door and started up his car before the jock had the chance, pulling away and not bothering to look back.

His phone, now sitting in a cup holder next to him, vibrated for the third time, and Kurt's fingers tightened minutely around the wheel, his eyes fixed determinedly ahead.

* * *

Puck was pretty sure that if one more "emergency" Glee meeting was called during lunch, he would rip Berry's head clean off, juvie be damned.

And with how bitchy Kurt had been that morning, Puck did _not_ want to hear about the young countertenor.

Still, there was a small part of him, beneath the layer upon layer of anger and annoyance, that was worried about Hummel, so he was doing his best not to lash out and crush Ms. Perfect-annoying- midget-Jew into the ground.

"Why'd you call us all here again?" Tina asked Rachel with a look of annoyance once everyone had settled in.

Rachel was standing at the front of the room with her hands on her slim waist.

"Well," she began, "I was mulling over my future as a glorious Broadway star last night and considering which musicals it would be best to start with, when it occurred to me that I've always found that it is not laughter, but music, that is the best medicine. So, I've called you in with a brilliant proposal built around that idea, all courtesy of my incredible social conscience and absolute creative genius…" Rachel paused dramatically, then continued enthusiastically with, "We're going to come up with a musical number to cheer Kurt up again! All of us! Nothing complex, of course, as we have sectionals coming up and we need to focus on perfecting our numbers to the point where we can wipe the floor with the Warblers and Hipsters both, not that there's even a remote possibility of either of them winning with me in the lead." She giggled and winked, and everyone exchanged glances of bemusement and/or irritation. "Now, hold onto your hats, because it gets better from there. You see, this is the perfect exercise to increase our group unity! Therefore, I want us to commence brainstorming and rehearsing as soon as possible. Which means we need someone to volunteer their house for us all to go to after school."

"Um, excuse me, but I have a date with Mike," Tina interjected with a frown.

"There is no way I'm wasting my time listening to you when I could be getting laid," Puck scoffed, Finn laughing as he knew that Puck had no intention to have sex that afternoon, as the pair of them had football practice again, then going back to Puck's place to play video games (or at least that had been the plan before Rachel came up with something else for them to do).

"Sorry, dwarf, but I'm with Puckerman. I needs to gets my mack on tonight, so you can count me out."

"I'm surprised at you guys," Rachel exclaimed, looking legitimately stunned at their rejection. "We're supposed to be a group, and, more than that, a family. Look, I know I can be really…self-involved…sometimes, but even I can see that something's wrong with Kurt, and while the boys already helped by confronting Karofsky, I just don't think that's enough."

"I hate to say it, but I'm with Rachel on this one…" Mercedes spoke up. "And trust me, I really don't want to, but last week I asked if he wanted to go shopping with me, and he didn't even seem to hear me at first. I eventually had to just give up. There's something going on with that boy."

"He's been out of it at home lately too," Finn tacked on. "That's why Puck and I are staying over at Puck's place until Friday. I felt kinda bad 'cause he does a lot for us, y'know? Even though he's sick."

"It'll be a surprise," Rachel smiled, taking Mercedes' and Finn's support as a group-wide confirmation. "We can use my Dads' Oscar room tonight."

"Fine," Tina sighed, laying her head on Mike's shoulder. "It's not like we haven't gone to dim-sum a thousand times before or anything."

"Mom will be disappointed," Mike told her, but his voice was fond and resigned, negating the rebuke of the words.

"Fine," Santana snapped. "I'll do it. But not 'till seven, alright? I've still gots to get mah mack-fix beforehand, so I don't end up putting your humongous head on a stick."

"Sweet lady kisses," Brittany mumbled.

Everyone ignored her, excluding Artie, who tightened his grip on her hand slightly, and Santana, who shot the blond an unreadable look most would pass off as mere annoyance, not spotting the flicker of fear or twitch of adoration.

"Perfect," Rachel exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "It's settled then!" Rachel paused, as if expecting applause, and then plowed on with head held high and grin only barely faltering as everyone already began to stand and swiftly depart, calling out belatedly: "You can leave now if you want! I'll see all of you at seven!"

* * *

Kurt swirled his spoon around monotonously in his cup of chamomile tea, staring vaguely into his closet.

He'd woken for the third time in two hours about ten minutes ago and resigned himself to not being able to go back to sleep right away, as he would have liked to do. The nightmares were getting worse, unsurprising given this morning's events.

As if sensing the scheme of his thoughts, Kurt's phone vibrated once again on his desk, and he, once again, ignored it.

He'd have turned it off by now, but he knew his Dad wanted him to keep his phone on and charged as much as possible in case Finn or Puck or Ernie or Kyle or Uncle Andy or Aunt Mildred or anyone else wanted to get a hold of him. He also knew that if any of the latter four called and his phone was off they had agreed to come and check on him, and Kurt honestly didn't feel up to interacting with any of them at the moment. Particularly his Aunt Mildred, who drank a lot and had no sense of personal boundary, common courtesy, law, or any sort of filtering system whatsoever, when drunk (which she frequently was).

Odd, how his aunt had mastered the art of driving while intoxicated.

And of course there was her "wife" Aunt Lila, who was just as wild, but far less derogatory and unlawful a drunk. Aunt Lila, when intoxicated, was simply very clingy and affectionate. And also a bit showy. But that was it, really.

In any case, if either tried to contact him and his phone was off, they were liable to come down and see him and proceed to raid the liquor cabinet, with Aunt Lila putting on a "fashion show" and Aunt Mildred shouting inappropriate things and leering lasciviously without trying to hide it at all.

Not that Kurt didn't love his aunts; he did, and they were, in fact, his greatest influences other than his own mother and father, but they were fairly high-maintenance, even more so than Kurt himself on his worst days, and they were almost forceful in their exuberance. Kurt simply wasn't in the mood to deal with such behavior or crudeness as his aunts typically gave way to.

The house phone rang sharply upstairs, pulling Kurt from his thoughts, and he set his tea down carefully before running up from his basement-bedroom to the main room.

Kurt hit the talk button mere moments before the last ring preceding voicemail, and husked out a breathless: "Hello?"

"Kurt?" His Dad. Kurt breathed a sigh of relief.

He'd been due for another of the old "fag" calls for awhile, and it put him on edge anytime the phone rang.

"Hey, dad," he smiled, taking the phone into the living room and sinking down into his usual spot.

"Hey, kid. You still sick then, huh?"

"A little," Kurt admitted. "But I've gone through my vitamins and done everything right, and I'm feeling a lot better already. I was going to sleep a bit longer, than head out to the garage actually."

"Sounds like a good plan, just as long as you're really feeling better, alright? Don't push yourself too hard, kiddo."

"I know, Dad. I won't."

"Good. Now, you'll never guess where Carole and I are getting ready to go."

His voice was light and teasing and amused, and it brought a grin to Kurt's face.

"Where?" he asked excitedly.

"You're supposed to guess," Burt laughed. "We're going to that French spa place you were bugging us to go to. Apparently, Carole found a brochure you hid in her stuff? It got her pretty excited."

"You mean Nous sommes le ciel?" Kurt exclaimed shrilly. "That's amazing, Dad! It'll be so good for the both of you!"

"Well, we've booked the plan keeping us there till next Tuesday, so it better be," Burt huffed.

Kurt laughed happily.

"Carole's going to have to give me the full report when she can. I want to hear everything, and I know I can't trust you to give me the full details."

Burt Hummel chuckled lightly.

"Probably not," he agreed. "I'll be out of touch probably, y'know?"

"Oh, I know," Kurt reassured him. "That's part of the pure relaxation package I recommended to Carole. Don't worry about me Dad. Or Finn, for that matter. We're both fine."

"Okay, just remember that in the case of an emergency, you can always call the spa, and they'll let us know."

"I've already got the number," Kurt chirped in reply.

"Knew I could count on you to. Okay, kiddo, well I've got to go. It's a bit of a drive, and Carole and I want to get there on time."

"Of course! Call us when you guys get back."

"Alright. And, hey, listen, Carole wants you to let Finn know what's going on, okay? And to tell him she sends her love to him, as well as you."

"Sure thing," Kurt smiled gently. "Tell Carole she's the most amazing step-mother in the world and that I want a full report."

"Will do. Bye Kurt-o. Take care of yourself kid. I love you."

"Love you too, Dad. Just try and relax this week. Your heart needs it."

Burt grunted and Kurt pursed his lips in amusement.

"Bye Dad."

"Bye."

And then the dial tone.

Kurt shook his head fondly as he stood, making his way back to the kitchen to place the phone on the counter, and then yawned and went back downstairs.

He'd sleep for a couple more hours, and then he'd go out and work in the garage for a while. And he'd ignore how his phone was buzzing in the meantime.

Kurt had just spoken to his dad, and he was fairly happy, and he wasn't letting Karofsky touch that. Not now.

He couldn't.

* * *

Okay, so Puck had known his talk with the jocks wouldn't exactly go over all that well, but locking him in a port-a-potty was really messed up.

Puck banged tiredly on the door thrice more, before slumping downward, running a hand over his Mohawk.

This was such complete bullshit.

He groaned, and reluctantly took his phone from his pocket. He really hadn't wanted to say anything to anyone, beause the Puckasauraus was a total badass, and did not need other people to come and pull him out of a goddamn toilet.

This was humiliating.

But he was not about to spend the rest of the day in here, and, besides, he knew Finn was looking for him.

The quarterback had texted him four times already.

Puck forced himself to text someone. Not Finn, though. Artie.

The wheel-chair-bound boy knew what this was like. And it wasn't like he didn't already know embarrassing stories about Puck already, like those jackasses jumping him and tearing out his nipple-ring on his first day at juvie, or about the dumb motherfucker who'd stolen his waffles.

Luckily, Artie replied promptly, saying that he'd just asked a teacher if he could go use the restroom, and so he'd be right down.

All there was left to do was wait.

He was glad he'd chosen to talk to the members of the team he could during the later portion of lunch, when they were all usually hanging around in the weight room.

Puck could only imagine how shitty it would have been for him if he'd asked at after-school practice, when his phone and everything else was in his athletic locker and most everyone had already gone home.

That would have absolutely sucked.

As it was, Puck was going crazy trapped in this damn thing, and he hadn't even been in it an hour really. After the guys had locked him in, they'd managed to also tip it over onto its side, and there was a bunch of gunk below him. It was sick.

And not in the good way.

To his immense relief, Artie was quick in his chair, and he could hear the other boy's voice telling him he was there, and that he almost had the door…open.

Open.

It was open.

Thank Allah, Adonai, Jesus, Cheesus, Zeus and every other possible deity there was!

Fresh air had never seemed so fresh.

Puck tumbled out of his cage, breathing heavily, and wasted no time throwing up, his lunch bursting forth eagerly as he took in the pungent stench that had enwrapped him.

"Need to get out of here," he muttered when he was done, staggering towards the football field, hearing Artie following behind.

"You're my God, now," he told the younger boy seriously when they reached the ever-green turf of the field.

Artie laughed.

"Gee, thanks Puck," Artie chortled at him. Then, more carefully, "Are you okay?"

"Of course I am. I'm a stud," Puck reminded his Glee-mate forcefully.

He ignored the fact that at the moment his voice just sounded tired.

He was, after all, bad-ass number one. Better nobody be doubting that.

"I know," Artie hummed in acceptance.

Puck's eyes filled momentarily with gratitude, his gaze shifting to the nerd, then they hardened once more, glinting with the usual strength and awesomeness.

Or at least, that's what he imagined they did.

"Well, I better get back to class yo," Artie told him hesitantly. "Mr. Fields just loves any opportunity to give a detention. He's more of a bitch than Santana sometimes."

The last sentence was tinged with bitterness, and Puck almost asked what was going on, but bad-asses didn't really care about that shit, so he didn't.

"Cool bro," he said distractedly.

Artie nodded a little.

"I'll see you in Glee, man," he told Puck. "You goin to class?"

"Nah, I'm just gonna skip for the rest of the period," Puck replied.

"Figured," Artie smiled, already beginning to wheel himself away. "Bye."

"Bye," Puck muttered to the passing breeze. He, then, stuck his hands in his pockets and started towards the gym. There wasn't another gym class till next period, as McKinley had two lunch periods, and the P.E. teachers used the later one, along with freshman and seniors. First lunch period was the sophomore and junior classes.

Puck took a quick shower in the empty athletics locker room, then got dressed, and headed out to the bleachers. Beneath the outer bleachers was another good place to chill when you were skipping, and he'd decided that his sixth period English class could go fuck itself.

He'd just gotten past the first section of the bleachers, swinging lightly past the metal dividing posts underneath, when he heard a girl's voice, soft and slightly sultry, like Quinn's voice with an edge of Santana's.

He frowned, ambling a bit further along, and peering at the figure sitting under the bleachers with a notebook in hand, and headphone cords visibly running from her ears, through her pale pink shirt, and down to the ipod balanced on a sneaker-ed foot.

She was singing softly as she took notes from a textbook, occasionally reaching to brush back a short blond curl to join the rest of her chin-length hair.

He went a little further forward, listening carefully.

" _And it was raining cats and dogs outside of her window_ _  
_ _And she knew they were destined to become_ _  
_ _Sacred road kill on the way_ _  
_ _And she was listening to the sound of heaven's shaking_ _  
_ _Thinking about puddles, puddles and mistakes_

 _Cause it's been turpentine and patches_ _  
__It's been cold, cold Campbell's from the can_ _  
__And they were just two jerks playing with matches_ _  
__Cause that's all they knew how to play_

 _Elvis never could carry a tune_ _  
__And she thought about this irony as she stared back at the moon_ _  
__She was tracing her years with her fingers on her skin_ _  
__Saying why don't I begin again_ _  
__With turpentine and patches_ _  
__With cold, cold Campbell's from the can_ _  
__After all I'm still a jerk playing with matches_ _  
__It's just that he's not around to play along_ _  
__I'm still an asshole playing with candles_ _  
__Blowing out wishes, blowing out dreams_ _  
__Just sitting here and trying to decipher_ _  
__What's written in Braille upon my skin..."_

"Y'know," Puck said loudly. "You're pretty good. Or not bad at least."

"Excuse me?" the girl asked, looking affronted as she wrenched the buds from her ears.

"You're not bad."

She rolled her eyes.

"Okay, and?"

"Bitch, much?" he laughed.

The girl sighed, rolling her gray eyes.

"Actually it's Kate," she told him. "And if you didn't notice, I'm kinda working here. I have to get this done before seventh."

The bell rang in the background, and Puck shrugged, sinking to the ground in front of her.

"It only just became sixth."

"I know," she said pointedly. "But this is my free period, and I wanted to finish off these notes really fast, and then go over them a few times before class. I have a test."

"That's dumb. Why are you working so hard?" Puck asked incredulously.

The girl, Kate, brushed a stubborn curl back for the fourth time in a row, and sighed at him.

"I want to get out of Lima," she said irritably. "I've been working my ass off to make up for having a crappy time of it freshman year. I goofed off too much, and now, of course, I've lived to regret it. Obviously, Lima-losers like you may not understand that, but I looked up some info on my college of choice. It's not lavish, but it's the best I can do, and I need my application to be as good as possible. Which means working hard…and finding another extracurricular," she frowned. "Drama club took a hit this year. And then, Mr. Lowe chose to leave a week ago, and now we've all got to find something else to do."

Puck made a sound of derision.

"You're a drama nerd?"

"It's better than anything you could be," she retorted, jotting down another line of notes as she spoke.

"Hey, I'm awesome," Puck informed her. "I'm a stud. The name is-"

"Puckerman," she said for him, still writing. "Trust me, I know. The full-of-himself man-whore junior. Would have been a senior but was held back in sixth. I was there. I remember."

"You're a senior?" he asked.

"Duh," Kate said vaguely.

"But you're so…short…Almost as short as Rachel, even."

Kate snorted.

"Like that means anything. And, yeah, I'm an inch and a half taller than Rachel berry, if that's who you're talking about."

"You know her?" Puck asked with a frown.

"I live a few houses down from her and her dads," Kate told him distractedly. "Nice guys. Annoying ass daughter."

"Tell me about it," Puck muttered.

"Wouldn't take you as the sort to really know her," Kate said slowly, finally looking up at him.

He shrugged.

"We're in Glee together."

"Glee…You mean that Nude Erections club Figgins took funding away from drama for?" she asked with a scowl.

Puck looked dubious at that.

"Uh…Maybe?"

Kate went back to her work.

"I've heard that club's full of losers."

"Is not," Puck said loudly.

She looked back at him, the corner of a lip twitching up.

"Sure…Belive that if you want..."

"Will you join?"

That caught her attention.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. We need another member. You're an okay singer, and I already tried asking the rest of the guys on the football team, only to have them lock me in a port-a-potty."

Kate laughed loudly.

"That's because the jocks are assholes."

He nodded in agreement, and she said pleasantly: "That includes you, by the way."

"I know," he shrugged. "But I'm a cool asshole, and they're not. That's the difference. Me, Finn, Sam, Mike, and Artie are all Glocks, which makes us awesome."

"Like the guns?"

"Hell yeah," he said proudly.

"Uh-huh," Kate said slowly, flipping a page in her textbook.

"You know you want to join," Puck told her seriously. "You said you needed another extracurricular, right? That's what Glee is."

"If I say I'll think about it, will you leave me alone?" Kate asked with a sigh.

Puck nodded vigorously, smirking a bit at her.

She rolled her eyes again.

"I'll think about it then." When he didn't move, she looked up at him from beneath her lowered brow, and said, "Bye."

"Right," Puck grinned. "Bye."

He stood and went towards the nurse's office to get in a quick nap, inwardly rejoicing.

He was so awesome.

* * *

It was seven and Kurt had been in the garage for a little over six hours when he decided to let everyone out early.

The announcement had several of the guys grinning, as Kurt reassured them that no-one's pay would be docked, but that he was in a giving mood, and that business had been slow enough that day that there was no real reason for them to hang around.

"Hey kid," a voice called out from the car next to him. Kurt glanced over, smiling at his "Uncle" Ernie.

"Hey, Ern," he replied.

"You got this all handled for sure?"

"Oh, yeah," Kurt reassured the older man as he wiped his hands on a grease rag. "No problem."

Ernie laughed and clapped him on his cover-all-ed shoulder.

"Alright, well I'm gonna head home then Kurt-o. Bonnie's been having some trouble with Alison."

"Terrible twos, right?" Kurt asked wryly.

Ernie beamed, sweeping his hat off.

"You better believe it. But the tike is progressing faster than Brian or Diana did."

"You need me to watch her, I'm available any time," Kurt reminded Ernie, who smiled fondly.

"I know that, Kurt-o. We would have called you a couple weeks ago, but Bonnie's mom has been hanging around a lot recently, and you know how she is about…people like you and your aunts." Ernie shifted uncomfortably as he said the latter part, and Kurt nodded, trying to make himself look as understanding as he could.

He'd grown up around Ernie, and Ernie had been in school with his mom and his aunt Lila, in Aunt Lila's year, so he knew that he could trust the man and that neither he, nor his family, were homophobic. But Bonnie, Ernie's wife, had a mother who was one of the more extreme Catholics and very much against homosexuals like Kurt.

Ernie patted Kurt's arm.

"Kay, well I'm gonna take off kid. See you tomorrow?"

"You bet," Kurt replied.

Kurt spent another forty-five minutes in the garage, before deciding to take a break and go up to the attic.

He felt like visiting his mom's dresser again.

He climbed the stairs in his Dad's room, humming softly, and went into the attic, going immediately to the dresser.

Kurt was laying there in front of its clawed leg, the bottom drawer pulled slightly out, letting the memories of his mom drape over him, when his eyes flickered to the shadow beneath it, then upwards to the smooth polished wood of the dresser's base.

A gasp escaped Kurt's lips and he started up.

No…

There was a spider.

On. His. Mom's. Dresser.

A spider.

Probably getting ready to hatch spider-eggs, and have spider-babies.

On his mom's dresser!

This dresser had her old perfumes, the ones she had so dearly loved, and her favorite dresses, and scarves, and jewelry. This dresser was Kurt's closest and biggest remnant of his mom. So much of her was in there.

No insect was allowed to desecrate that, in _any_ way.

Contrary to what people seemed to think, Kurt didn't really have a problem with bigger creatures, like spiders and cockroaches. He didn't particularly like the latter, but he did the former and, in fact, he often used accessories made with the arachnid in mind to complete favorite ensembles.

But this dresser was a big part of what was holding him together. A piece of his mom that he could still go to in times of trouble, and feel her presence, and feel a little bit better.

He couldn't let anything touch that small oasis; this tiny remnant of his dead mother was absolutely sacred.

_No spiders allowed._

Kurt went to a small closet in the attic and pulled a broom from the midst of the cleaning supplies and, jaw set firmly, knuckles white in their grip, he strode swiftly back to the aged piece of furniture and began searching for the spider.

Spotting it from the side, just slightly underneath the shadow of the clawed legs of Elizabeth Hummel's old bureau, Kurt lashed out with the broom, swatting furiously forward with the straw end.

The spider scuttled back slightly, just barely visible now, and Kurt clenched his teeth, striking out again, and again, and then a fourth time, and then-

The broom…was stuck.

Kurt frowned; panic rearing up in him as he tugged at the broom's handle.

He recalled with no small degree of annoyance that several years ago, when he was about eleven, he'd pulled out that bottom drawer and been going through it when he noticed a letter taped to the bottom. In his haste to peel it off, some of the already-damaged wood had come off at the front bottom of the drawer, forming a jagged crevice.

Kurt had been extremely upset, and run to his Dad, only to be told that that break had begun forming long ago, and that his mom and dad had already gone over it before with some gloss and paper trying to keep it from falling apart for as long as they could, and that it was really about time it fell apart, anyways.

That must be what the broom was stuck in.

Kurt scowled, and tugged sharply forward on the broom, and then all at once, the dresser was falling, falling forward and Kurt was on the floor a few feet away, knocked down by the force, and holding a broom tightly in his hand, and staring in horror as his mom's old dresser crashed with a resounding smack to the hard attic floor.

Kurt stared for several seconds that felt like long minutes or dragging hours, mouth slightly agape.

And then, his head was slowly shaking back and forth and he couldn't breathe and he was crying, and all Kurt knew was that he had to get out of there.

And so he ran, out of the attic and down the stairs and then down the stairs again to his basement bedroom.

Devastation seeped down his cheeks, and throbbed in his chest, and Kurt was gasping and sobbing and _he needed to remember how to breathe!_

Kurt found himself gripping his phone, desperate to hear someone's voice, to feel someone with him.

Kurt was used to doing a lot of things alone, but this was one thing that he absolutely could not.

Kurt hit the call button on his first contact, one Blaine Anderson, but, throat tight, hung up after only one ring.

He needed…someone who would want to be here.

Mercedes!

He desperately put in speed dial three and pressed call, only for the phone to go straight to voicemail, and Kurt could not, could not leave a voicemail, not now. He couldn't talk to a machine.

He needed to talk to a person.

He tried Finn next. Then Puck. Then Rachel. Artie. Tina. Quinn. Mike. Brittany. Santana.

By the end he was gasping desperately, heart pounding, hands trembling, on the verge of collapse.

Where were they?

And then.

Kurt's phone vibrated.

His heart was in his throat as he went to his messages.

Maybe it was _Mercedes_.

_Or Finn._

_**Or someone.** _

But no.

Again.

It was the same person that had been spam-texting him since that morning.

Kurt's breathing picked up as he stared at the words, and then, as if on autopilot, his thumb slid over the unfamiliar number.

_And he hit call._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Don't worry about Kate becoming a major focus or anything. Kurt is my main character. After that the biggest focuses are the same as I said in chapter one.  
> 2\. Song credit:  
> Kate-- "Braille" by Regina Spektor.  
> 3\. Reviews are always appreciated. :)


	8. Fall

_"It_ _has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.”_

_\---Chaos Theory_

…

_“_ _There’s a ripple effectin all that we do. What you do touches me; what I do touches you.”_

**_\---_ ** _Anonymous_

_~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~_

"Hey, bitch, you finally figure out how much you want it, then?"

Karofsky.

Was he really doing this?

Kurt barely knew; his mind was a blur, his actions all instinctive and spontaneous, like those of a robot set in survival mode.

"Can you please come over?" he hiccuped hoarsely into the phone.

Well, there was his answer to that question…

"…What was that, princess?" Karofsky's voice sounded oddly disconcerted in his ear.

Kurt choked on another sob, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Please," he whispered against his will. "Please come over. I need- _I can't_ \- I can't be alone right now! Please…Please, just…I need…Please."

"Whoa, chill out, Hummel. …Anyone else there?"

"No," Kurt sniffled. "I'm alone. I'm always alone, and no-one's here at all, and now even she's gone. I just need to not be alone anymore, just this once. Pl-"

"You just being a wimp here, fag? Whining like always, pitching a fit over nothing. What happened, huh? Break a nail?"

"No. Please," Kurt murmured tiredly into the phone, his tears slowing as exhaustion took over. "I can't…I just need someone, anyone. Please. There's no-one else. You were right, okay? Please just- I can't do this right now, _Dave_. I need someone, or else I'm going to end up doing something drastic, I know it... Please; I know you want me dead most of the time, but for once, _can you just not_?"

Kurt may have been begging, may have been desperate, and may have been needing it ( _so, so much_ ), but when Karofsky said, "Whatever, fairy. I'll see you in a few", Kurt was still thoroughly shocked.

He numbly set down his cell phone[](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/8/Vibrato) on his desk and stumbled over to his bed, feeling oddly empty.

Kurt spent the next fifteen minutes curled up on the bed and staring impassively at a small snippet of fabric he'd taken from a lamp cover the year before, the cover of the lamp Finn had called faggy.

And, then, upstairs, the doorbell rang.

For a heartbeat after Kurt instinctively slid to his feet, he felt excitement, and he pictured it being Mercedes or Finn or Puck or Blaine upstairs. Saving him from Karofsky, and saving him from being all alone, and saving him from himself, all in one glorious swoop. He imagined that they had just _known_ , the way friends and brothers and ex-bullies that lived with you and mentor-slash-possible-love-interests were all supposed to…and had come to save him.

Kurt had always when he was younger liked to believe that he didn't need to be saved, that he could take care of himself, like a big boy. And if he failed, his mommy would save him, and she'd drag his dad and little sister or brother with her. But that was a long time ago, before his mom lost the baby, and before she'd wasted away into almost nothing.

Even then though.

Kurt had wanted to be able to handle himself, and have the equality that his mom had always talked about when she was well enough to, with all those he loved. But sometimes, in recent years, he'd wondered which option was better.

He'd begun to question if it was really so great to be constantly saving yourself, while others stood in the background and impassively watched.

Even more, though, as he'd grown he'd seen that it wasn't nearly so simple as he'd once thought.

People needed other people from time to time.

He'd learned over the years just how hard it was, and how painful ( _excruciating_ ), to spend your time working to only ever depend on yourself, and he'd learned exactly how toxic loneliness could be.

Still, though, Kurt had never so longed to be saved as he did now, marching up the stairs, like a man to his death or a Kurt Hummel to his…

bully/attacker/almost-rapist/ _ **onlychance**_.

Whatever.

As Kurt opened the door and Karofsky smirked and shoved in, Kurt not only hated himself, but also his family and friends.

Because, illogical as it was…

He had needed them to show up.

He had needed them to save him.

Before it was too late.

Just. This. Once.

And now…now there was nothing else to do. He wasn't going to be saved, at least not really. Not Tonight. Not by David Karofsky.

* * *

"Alright, guys, how's it coming?"

"Lame," Puck told Rachel loudly.

She ignored him.

The Glee Club was spread out through Rachel's Dads' "Oscar room", mostly looking near bored to tears. At this point, an hour or two since everyone had arrived, most would probably have just taken out their phones or started playing games on their laptops (for those who had them), but Rachel had confiscated all phones on arrival with Finn's blackmailed help, and when Artie had started playing spider solitaire on his laptop, Rachel had somehow known, and he'd been forced to endure a ten minute rant on the importance of friendship, plus another twenty minutes worth devoted to the importance of music and its positive effects throughout the media-related history.

No-one tried to go on solitaire again, that was for sure.

"Tina, any progress? No? What about you Mike? Santana? Quinn? Brittany?"

Rachel's voice had an edge of desperation as she continued listing names, the edge becoming more prominent as she reached Brittany, who positively beamed when Rachel reached her name.

"I've found the perfect song," Brittany told her.

"Um, that's great Brittany! Now, just let me try singing a few bars and we'll see how it-"

"Nuh-uh," Brittany said with a smile. "We all know I'm more talented than anyone here. And my cat's always told me it's finders keepers right? And I found this special for Kurtsie."

There was a long moment of silence in the room as everyone stared at Brittany, several mouthing the word "Kurtsie" at each other in bewilderment. And then:

"Here: this is the song," Brittany told them airily.

There was another pause, and then….

" _I'm tired of boys who make me cry  
They cheat on me and they tell me lies  
I want a love who'll never stray  
When he sees other girls, he looks away  
And if he never kisses me, well that's alright  
'Cos we can just cuddle all night_

_Gay boyfriend, gay boyfriend_   
_I don't really care that you are queer_   
_Gay boyfriend, gay boyfriend_   
_I never feel lonely when you are near_

_It'll be a great romance_   
_We'll go shopping and buy tight pants_   
_You don't care how big my ass is, just how fabulous my dress is_

_Gay boyfriend, gay boyfriend-"_

There wasn't a single jaw in the room undropped.

" _-_ _I don't really care that you are queer_ _  
_ _Gay boyfriend, gay boyfriend_ _  
_ _I never feel lonely when you are near_

_One, two, ready go_ _  
_ _You cry at movies, on our dates_ _  
_ _Romantic comedies sure are great_ _  
_ _But when you're sad I'll dry your tears_ _  
_ _'Cos I'll always think that you are fierce_

_I like cigarettes, and that's no gag_ _  
_ _But you'll always be my favorite f-"_

"Brittany," Rachel bellowed, at last finding her voice, and the blond paused the music in the nick of time.

"Yes?" she asked innocently, grinning around the room at their apparent astonishment.

Rachel frowned, clearing her throat as she worked to make the words she wanted to say sound at least a little nicer.

"That, while an…interesting choice…is not exactly what we're looking for. In fact, I'm pretty sure that I've found the perfect song! It-"

"It's okay Britt-britt," Santana murmured to Brittany, whose features had rarely looked so utterly downcast. "Berry wouldn't know awesome if it hit her right on the top of her gigantic schnozz."

Brittany grinned at Santana, and Artie shot the latina a look.

"Anyway," Rachel said loudly, "as I said I do believe I have found the perfect song."

"No Broadway shit, right?" Puck asked with a frown.

Rachel turned her narrowed eyes on him, lips pursed with disapproval, then cleared her throat and smiled brightly.

"As you stipulated exactly that upon your arrival, to the group's general consensus," most everyone grinned at that particular understatement, "I did exclude all things Broadway from my search," Rachel's lips re-pursed momentarily as she added in an undertone: "which is probably why it took so long to find a good match," and then a bright "show smile" once more took the scowl's place, and she continued on: "No matter, of course, as I've now found the absolute perfect song for us to sing for Kurt- fun fact, actually," Rachel interrupted herself, looking absolutely exuberant. "I have a very personal connection to this particular 90s pop song that goes beyond mere childhood nostalgia to it being very much a part of Rachel Berry's very birth."

"That's a fun fact?" Tina asked dryly.

"I'll give you a hint what it is," Rachel told the room at large with a grin. "You just have to remember: this song is all about friends."

Quinn groaned loudly from where she sat with Sam, who was staring at Rachel with a crease between his brows and mouth slightly agape.

"Look, Rachel, can you just spit it out already? You're keeping us all up and I have to actually finish up my homework, as well as start looking through online catalogues and ordering Christmas presents for my family. Obviously you wouldn't know, but staying on top in high school? It's a lot of work."

Rachel sputtered for a long moment, then finally managed to huff out a fine.

"Just listen to it, okay? The first time listen to the music in general, second there should be a lyrical focus, and on third listen we all need to be picturing how we would perform this. After that, you guys can just write down all of your ideas, and then you can leave. We'll just have to meet again tomorrow."

Mercedes yawned loudly and cast a glare Rachel's way, before "whatever"-ing her consent, while the others in the room also gave some variant of that same response.

"Excellent," Rachel told them in her "satisfied-businesswoman" voice. "Then let's begin."

* * *

"Hey homo."

Kurt closed his eyes.

"Karofsky," he said in a strangled voice.

God, he made himself sick.

Karofsky pushed past Kurt, one hard palm resting on Kurt's chest just a moment too long as he shoved his way in, and Kurt inhaled deeply before slowly, heavily closing the door and turning around.

Karofsky was on him instantaneously, pushing Kurt up against the door, hard, and pressing their lips together, tongue immediately diving into the shocked 'o' of the smaller boy's mouth. Kurt shrunk back slightly, one hand coming up to shove automatically and fruitlessly against the other boy's shoulder.

But as seconds slipped by the movement steadily lost heart.

Eyes squeezed tightly closed, Kurt broke away to take a rattling breath, Karofsky's gaze sharp, brutal, upon him, filled with lust and revulsion and hatred and almost something of a question; Kurt inhaled shakily and fought back tears, one drop breaking loose to run down his flushed features, and then, shoulders hunching and bottom teeth digging into soft lip, Kurt nodded his consent.

Cerulean eyes opened uncertainly, taking in the feral smirk on the jock's face, and he swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry.

Karofsky's arms wrapped tightly around him, pinning their bodies together, flush, and the jock began pressing hard kisses along Kurt's jaw-line, neck, ear, and shoulder. Kurt shivered at the feeling and closed his eyes tightly once more, desperately pretending it was someone else kissing him, someone else offering him this comfort. But then Karofsky snorted softly, obviously noticing Kurt's rising arousal, and muttered an oddly almost-fond-sounding "fag" in Kurt's ear and he was dragged back to Earth or Hell or whatever this place was.

He couldn't do this.

Kurt took a deep, aching breath, and thrust forward with all his might, jerking out of his bully's clutches and sending the startled-looking jock stumbling back a few feet. Kurt tilted his head back minutely to rest upwards against the door, and then heaved himself forward, scurrying around the increasingly-dangerous looking David Karofsky and over to the family room and the familiar couch, where he collapsed onto a corner cushion and softly let the sobs overcome him.

"What the hell Hummel?"

Karofsky sounded pissed.

Kurt let his abdomen fall forward and press to his thighs, arms draping around the bend of his knees and head dropping wearily atop them.

"Can we not do this right now?" he croaked. "I can't- I need you to leave. I know I told you to come over, but I can't…"

"Can't?" Karofsky snapped. "What the fuck can't you do, faggot?"

"This…" Kurt whispered. "I needed someone tonight, but I don't need a someone that's going to call me fag, or a girl, or anything like that."

"You called me," Karofsky reminded him.

"Yes I did. That was…stupid. So stupid." Kurt shook his head against his arms, bruised flesh providing a welcome throb at the motion.

"I'm not leaving without any action. You start something, you finish it, Hummel."

Karofsky's voice was hard, furious and dangerous and determined all at once. Kurt choked out a hysterical-sounding hiccup.

"Go ahead then. Make my life worse. You said you'd kill me once didn't you?" Kurt looked up at him. "There's nothing here to stop you is there? So, do it. I miss her enough right now…and she's gone. Maybe it really is time I joined her..."

"What the hell are you going on about Hummel?" Karofsky's voice sounded weird, but Kurt couldn't be bothered to examine how. He dragged an explanation out of him, the words oddly bursting once he'd started.

"My mom. She died. Officially about eight years ago, I'm sure you know, though I've always considered it ten… And most everything I have left of her is contained in a dresser...And tonight that dresser broke. The biggest piece I have left of her, and all it contains. I broke it; I broke all I've really got left of her. Maybe I am being overdramatic, but that dresser gets me through! And now…"

Kurt felt silent, hands pulling up into his lap and wringing anxiously.

"I ruined it," he whispered. "and now I don't know how I'll get by, because I feel like I've lost her all over again."

He didn't look up again, and there was a long silence, before Dave said, somehow both softly and simultaneously loudly, "I can be nice, different. You might not think so, but I can-…"

"What?" Kurt asked uncertainly, his voice hoarse and filled with pain and questioning.

"I almost lost my mom once too, you know? It sucks, dude. Hummel. Kurt. You need someone, right? Like, really badly. And I'm all that's here. I'm all you've got. Your only choice. So, you say yes. You agree to what I want and make everything better for the both of us. And, in exchange, I'll be what you need."

Kurt paused, his heart in his throat. Then: "…No. I just, I can't. I can do this alone. I can. I can 

andle it, just like I always have before. And I should never have called you."

"Yeah you should," Dave told him. "You called me for a reason. You can't do this alone," Dave's voice was scathing as he reached the last part, demeaning, and filled with scorn. "Look at you- you're…Hummel, you've fallen apart. Face it. You're not strong. You think you are but you're not. And you obviously need, not just someone, but me. That's why you called."

Kurt took the pillow from his side and hugged it to his hollow chest.

"I-"

"Hummel, I wish I didn't have to be harsh with you like this, but…you need it. You're never gonna make it like this. You think I'm bad? Then, when you get to your fancy, gay New York or Sacramento or wherever the hell it is that you girly gays like to go, you're gonna be crushed. You're not strong or tough enough to handle this, but you think you can handle the rest of the world?"

Kurt's tears were silent now, streaming down his face. His ears were buzzing.

"I'm right, Kurt. You want me and you need me, and you're just fighting a losing battle here, Hummel. It's about time you just fucking faced it."

Kurt inhaled raggedly.

"Maybe you're right," he whispered finally, his voice high and strained, and oddly-wavery. "But…" Kurt's eyes closed again, softly this time, as the odd sense of devastation that had been pulling him under all night crashed down, and enveloped him in its merciless tide.

He heard Karofsky's footsteps as if from a distance, and then the other boy was sitting beside him.

"I know what you need, Kurt," David murmured. "And that's me. I'm not this bad guy you act like I am. I can be nice, you know? I am nice. I'll show you."

Karofsky's… _Dave's_ … hand touched Kurt's, and the smaller boy closed off his mind…and let it.

* * *

Puck tapped his pen against his paper, disgruntled.

He kept feeling like he was forgetting something, or missing something, or…

"Is everyone done?" Rachel's voice was snooty and clear, and Puck found himself hating it.

Couldn't Berry just leave them be?

Of course, at least he'd managed to get something down…even if it was just a list of things he would not do, under any circumstances, and some doodles of comics where mostly Rachel and Kurt were either being killed with forks or singing to booing crowds and ultimately making everyone's eardrums break. Of course, Puck knew that that wasn't really a very nice coping mechanism, drawing those he was pissed with being killed or maimed or humiliated, but it really did help him blow off some steam…and he was a badass, so it wasn't like he cared.

Still, he wasn't going to let Berry catch sight of any of them. Not that he cared about her feelings or anything, just he didn't feel like listening to her bitch him out again. And she'd tell Kurt, or show him later on, and then Puck would be screwed with the kid for basically forever. And Finn, who he'd just made up with, and who was really defensive when it came to Rachel, and had recently taken to defending his "brother" just the same (or he had when it was against Puck, anyways).

Puck carefully tore around the drawings.

"Finn, can you start collecting the papers for me?" he heard Rachel ask somewhere in the background, and his friend's reply of "Sure!" fell just enough into his awareness to get him to speed up tearing his drawings away from the main chunk of his paper.

He was almost ready to just scratch them out, but Puck's drawing was as badass as his arms and he liked to keep a nice collection, sorted by person, at home.

Almost everyone in New Directions had a decent sized stack, with Rachel, Kurt, and Finn having some of the largest in their group.

If he added all of these he'd be up to…

Well, math was never really his strong point, was it?

Puck jerked off the last one just as Finn reached him, tearing it a little in the process (but that was cool, 'cause shit like that just made them look more badass as far as Puck was concerned), and forked over his paper as nonchalantly as he could.

Finn should probably have noticed the stack of drawings consisting of his girlfriend and his brother being horribly killed or mutilated or thrown to the proverbial (as well as, in one, literal) wolves, but he just looked as bored and mopey and out of it as he usually did.

"Thank you Finn, everyone," Rachel said, taking a stand on the center of the stage, a bejeweled microphone in hand, despite the fact that they'd all been able to hear her perfectly without it.

"We'll reconvene tomorrow night as well, alright? In the meanwhile, I'll talk to Mr. Schue about what we're doing tomorrow morning before our first Glee, and I'll make sure he keeps Kurt busy. Remember everyone, we want to keep this a secret, so if you don't think you can do that, I'd recommend just not talking to Kurt tomorrow. Santana, Artie, if you could make sure…?"

Rachel didn't finish, but she didn't really need to. Artie and Santana both narrowed their eyes at her, Santana more so than the wheelchair-bound boy, and then Artie nodded.

"Brittany and I are leaving early anyway. We were going to go over to the motocross trails earlier on, so she can beat the rush and show me her stuff. Right, Brittany?"

Brittany nodded vaguely at Rachel.

"I'm almost as amazing at motocross as I am at dancing," she informed the room. "All the shadows like to watch me."

Artie's gaze sharpened, and he tweaked his glasses. "Yeah," he said casting a pointed loom at Santana, who looked wary and annoyed, "they really do."

"We can take care of that, right Santana?" Puck asked with a smirk, "subtly" flexing his biceps.

"The shadows will probably love your arms too, Puck," Brittany smiled at him. "No-one can think they're not super fine. Even my cat likes them."

Puck paused, his muscles falling momentarily falling slack, then, one hand rubbing at the back of his Mohawk, he nodded in reply.

"Not surprising. I'm a total stud."

"Okay," Rachel interrupted, "that's great everyone. Noah, any progress on the recruiting front?"

Mercedes smirked over at him.

"Yeah, Noah, any luck?"

He had the feeling the guys hadn't kept their mouths shut about shoving him in a port-a-loo.

That was alright.

He'd kick their asses later.

"Yeah. I found the perfect chick."

Rachel frowned.

"A girl?" she asked narrowly, a crease forming between her brows.

"From what I could tell," Puck grinned.

"And…what's she like…?" Rachel asked slowly.

Puck couldn't help himself. This was too good.

"Better than that Sunshine chick, that's for sure. And way better than you."

Rachel's lips folded into a scowl, though she seemed to be struggling to hide her displeasure.

"That's impossible," she responded. "First of all, Sunshine was not any more talented than me-"

Tina and Mike both dissolved into coughing fits interspersed with Mike's "yes she is"'s and Tina mumbling under her breath the word "crackhouse", their reaction causing a wave of laughter to instantly pervade, the only ones not joining in being a glowering Rachel and sheepish looking Finn.

"Second of all," Rachel continued loudly. "I know for a fact that-"

"Goddmamn Berry," Puck interrupted. "I was fucking with you."

Rachel's nostrils flared and she reached to smooth out her skirt.

"Well, obviously, seeing as there's nobody better than me at McKinley," Rachel said condescendingly.

"Oh, do not start up with that again, white girl," Mercedes spoke up from the side, looking annoyed. "I'm every bit as amazing you are, if not more."

"Daydreams don't count, Mercedes."

"Oh you did not just-"

"Y'all! Cool down, yo."

"Hey decepticon, what do you think you're doing?" Santana snapped. "For your fyi that was a beatdown I's been wantin to see for pretty much ever."

"If any of us want to get out of here before midnight, we don't really have the time to fight," Artie retorted logically, voice slightly defensive.

Santana tossed her head.

"Okay, maybe the legless wonder has a point," she conceded irritably.

"Can you stop doing that?" Artie asked angrily. "It's not funny."

"Yeah, Santana, that's messed up, even for you," Tina added quietly.

Santana turned on her, causing Tina to scoot closer still to Mike, who wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders, casting the latina an oddly searing look.

"How about Puck just tells us about this girl and then we can all just go home?" Sam queried, yawning hugely as he spoke. "I'm getting really tired."

"That sounds like a good idea to me," Quinn voiced languidly. She was laying down at Sam's side with her head on his lap, blond locks fanning out lazily behind her.

"Noah," Rachel said pointedly. "Go ahead."

"Whatever," Puck grunted in reply. "She's a senior. Used to be in…some geeky class or whatever."

"Is that it?" Rachel was looking more annoyed by the millisecond, and, badass as he may be, Puck was already longing to get the hell outta dodge.

"Um…her name started with a K? Or was it a C…"

"Thanks Noah," Rachel's voice was nasty, and Puck glanced sideways at a picture he'd drawn of her face as she choked on her stupid bedazzled microphone while Puckzilla was worshipped in the background to calm himself down, a few nimble fingers reaching up to tug at the base of his scalp, combing through the scarce hairs of his mohawk's end.

The majority of his glee-mates muttered similar sardonic thank-you's, and Puck ground his teeth. If he could just…

"Kate! It was Kate. She said she knew you, actually." Puck directed the last part at Rachel, who frowned for a second, before a grin once more her face took over.

"The girl who lives two houses down from here you mean? Kate Milson."

At Puck's nod, Berry's grin only widened.

"This is perfect," she exclaimed. "Excellent, Noah."

"Told you," Puck muttered.

Mercedes shot him a tight-lipped glare.

"Just don't send this one to a crackhouse, please, Rachel?" Tina asked.

Rachel sniffed loudly into the microphone.

"I wouldn't do that…again…Look, in my defense, allow me to remind you that the crackhouse was _not_ active."

Oddly, it was Mercedes who keeled over with laughter first, and the rest of them quickly joined.

As loathe as they would be to admit it, there was a real bond between them, and they all felt, knew, even if only subconsciously, that for all their complaints, the members of New Directions weren't really in too bad a place at that particular moment. In fact, though none would admit it, where they all were was actually pretty good.

* * *

Well, all, that was, except for one Kurt Benjamin Hummel, whose most persistent thought that night was spent wondering where they, his family, his friends, where _they_ were, as David Elliot Karofsky's lips once more attached themselves to his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song credit:  
> Brittany-- "Gay Boyfriend" by The Hazards.


	9. I [Won't] Be There

_"It_ _has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.”_

_\---Chaos Theory_

…

_"_ _There’s a ripple effectin all that we do. What you do touches me; what I do touches you.”_

**_\---_ ** _Anonymous_

_~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~_

Kurt stood shivering in the Ohio chill, staring at the bleachers on the football field.

They would be deserted this early before school, even after guys started arriving for football practice before school.

Well…

Normally they'd be deserted.

But this morning. This morning was an exception.

Kurt wished it wasn't but…

Karofsky was supposed to be under those bleachers, waiting for him. So they could talk.

Let it be known, Kurt Hummel _really_ did not want to talk to David Karofsky.

But, Kurt reminded himself, he had to. He had to set the record straight, and he had to be strong and ignore the nagging doubt last night's events had inspired, and he had to, once again, say no to David's plan.

He'd given in the night before, in a moment of weakness. And it had been…almost nice. Just as long as he'd ignored the fact that it was David Karofsky that was touching him, and holding him, and being there for him.

If he'd allowed that notion to settle in, his head would almost certainly implode, and Kurt could not afford the loss of his faculties, when that was virtually all he had going for him. Besides, Karofsky's fashion sense was atrocious, and he almost certainly was a stranger to the concept of [moisturizer](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/9/Vibrato). In addition to the fact that he was a complete jerk…

Well usually he was. Last night may have shown that he didn't _have_ to be, but…

Right. Terrible fashion sense. [Complete](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/9/Vibrato) Neanderthal. Didn't understand the word no…

Like Kurt.

That was, according to Finn, something they had in common.

Kurt took a deep, unsteady breath.

He had to remember himself. _He had to say no_. To do otherwise would be weak, and Kurt Hummel had to be strong, even if it hurt, even if it killed him.

Which, based on Karofsky's threats, it very well might.

Kurt gritted his teeth, crossed his arms tightly over his chest, and trudged over to the bleachers.

He had to be strong.

_He couldn't afford not to be._

Kurt turned into the underside of the bleachers, and, seeing no-one, very nearly walked away.

He'd checked, after all. And if Karofsky was going to hide, or really wasn't there, then Kurt really had no obligation to-

"Hummel!"

Kurt pulled his arms tighter across his chest, shoulders taut, and faced the jock.

"Hi," he said sharply.

Karofsky crossed over to him and grabbed his shoulder. Kurt went to jerk away, but stopped the motion and let himself be dragged further beneath the bleachers, until the pair of them were almost entirely encased in the shadows.

And then, before Kurt could so much as blink, Karofsky's lips were on his and he was being pushed to the ground, Dave straddling him, and then a hand was sliding under his shirt and two fingers went up and-

No.

"No! Stop it…You have to…stop this! David! Get off! Would you stop for a second?" Kurt demanded, pushing hard at the form atop him.

Karofsky pinned him down, a hand holding each wrist individually to the ground, thighs pressed tight on either side of Kurt's waist. He struggled slightly, glaring up at the jock.

"Would you let go?"

Karofsky's lip curled.

"No thanks. You wanna talk, Hummel, go ahead."

Kurt opened his mouth to retort in the bitchiest manner possible, but Karofsky chose that moment to grind himself downwards, rubbing their groins together in a swift move filled with friction, and all that came out was a ridiculous cross between an exclamation and a mewl.

Kurt's face flushed.

He had the insane urge to cover himself up, despite the fact that he was still wearing all of his clothes.

He wished he'd at least chosen to wear pants a little looser for once. He was starting to feel incredibly exposed.

He scowled balefully up at the boy on top of him.

Karofsky smirked.

"I can't do this with you," Kurt bit out, looking away as best he could.

"Really? Cause it seems to me like you can," Dave replied arrogantly. The jock's hips thrust down again, and Kurt swallowed the beginnings of a moan.

This was really not going as planned.

And it was really beginning to piss him off, the way his body reacted to something he really didn't feel like he wanted, or was enjoying. It made Kurt feel self-conscious, and unsure. Which sensation was he supposed to trust?

"You're already starting to get hard, aren't you? That's cause you can do this, and you want to. You're just in denial," Karofsky informed him.

It was nothing Karofsky hadn't already said before, but the words still made Kurt feel sick all the same. Even more now really, when the doubt he'd felt of himself and his feelings from the first time Karofsky had cornered him in a janitor's closet the week before had festered and become just about tripled in size.

Kurt's head shook back and forth subconsciously, an automatic sense of shame rising.

"I don't care," he said quietly. "I still have to say no. I can't do these things with you. And I most certainly can't let you-"

"You owe me," Karofsky interrupted with a growl.

Kurt was shocked.

"I...What?"

"For last night, Hummel. You fucking owe me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Kurt's voice was hard, with just an edge of panic, hysteria.

"I was there wasn't I? Not one of your prissy friends showed up for you, but I did. And I was even nicer than usual. All for you. You think that shit comes free, Hummel?"

Kurt gaped at him.

"I didn't…I didn't ask for you to…"

"Yeah you did," Karofsky retorted angrily. "You begged for it, fairy-boy."

"I…"

What could he even say?

Nothing. Nothing at all. Everything David was saying was true.

Gaga, he was so pathetic...

"You owe me, Hummel. And you saw last night what I can be, what things could be like, didn't you? You consent and we both win. You don't? I'm telling you right now. This is your last chance, Kurt. You don't and I'll make sure that it's only me who wins. I'll take what I want from you. And then I'll kill you."

"You-you'll-"

Kurt's mind was frozen.

Karofsky snorted.

"You're such a wimp. All anyone has to do is say that, and you look like you're about to piss your pants. I'll tell you what. I won't kill you. Unless you tell someone about me. Just like before. But if you don't, then I'm gonna make sure your dad finds out his son's a willing cocksucker, okay? I'll give him details of things-"

"I haven't sucked anyone's-"

"Doesn't matter Hummel. Didn't your dad just have a heart attack? How much do you think he can take before it happens again? It's up to you, Kurt. So, make your goddamn choice."

Kurt's chest was frozen, his head spinning, throat closing.

Nothing felt like it made sense.

Karofsky's hips ground down again, and Kurt's eyes fluttered closed.

Then, slowly, not even aware of the movement, Kurt began to nod.

Karofsky grinned triumphantly, and rolled off of the small countertenor in one swift motion.

"Great," he said loudly.

Kurt opened his eyes, and stared at Karofsky's gigantic form.

He'd never felt so small.

What happened to strength?

Nobody pushes the Hummels around, supposedly, but here Kurt was, pathetic, pushed, nothing.

He was disgusting.

But, Karofsky had been right about his Dad as well. And Kurt could do nothing that might put his father at risk.

He'd said once that he loved his dad more than he loved being a star. Well, he loved his dad more than he loved being "strong", too.

Plus, Kurt couldn't handle his Dad even hearing about Kurt doing those sorts of things, true or not, and he was sure his Dad wouldn't be able to handle it either. He was still adjusting to the whole gay thing. He'd only recently started being really okay about the possibility of Kurt's even having a viable romantic interest in another guy.

To add sexual interaction of any kind wouldn't just humiliate Kurt and disappoint his dad- it would send his father into cardiac arrest!

Karofsky winked at him, and Kurt looked away.

"Hudson and Puckerman are staying at Puck's place for a few days right?"

"…yes," Kurt forced himself to say.

"Then, I'll see you tonight, Kurt."

And he left.

Kurt tucked his knees to his chest and let himself drown for a minute in the darkness beneath the bleachers, then staggered to his feet.

He couldn't do this anymore. What was done, was done. And he had an early-morning Glee practice he still had to get to.

Kurt Hummel put on his best bitch mask and started towards the choir room, leaving his tears behind in the dust.

* * *

"Kurt! Long time no see, eh?"

Mr. Schuster was grinning at him. He gave a noncommittal shrug and forced a smile at his teacher. Schuster brightened, seeming to buy the expression, not that that surprised Kurt. After all, this was the teacher who had passed him up over and over when a bunch of huge jocks were preparing to toss him into the trash, even asking if he was making some new friends. Schue was, and always had been, completely clueless.

"You're early," his teacher commented.

Kurt ignored him this time, taking a seat in one of the higher chairs, as far to the side as possible.

His heart was in his throat as he eyed the door.

Kurt had never thought there'd be a day where he'd literally dread having to face any of his so-called friends, but, once more, he'd been proven wrong. Irrational though it may be, Kurt was angry with his "friends" for not being there, hurt at how he'd been basically ignored. It had taken them a long enough time to even comment on Karofsky's very public violence, and he'd been fine. But things had only gotten worse, and he'd needed them, really and truly, last night. And for once, he'd really worked to get that help. He'd called out. And no-one had answered.

No. That wasn't true.

One person had.

And he'd had to take the only help offered, hadn't he? And now that had only gotten him in deeper, and if his friends had just answered their phones, or realized he was left all alone all the damn time, and that maybe he needed a friend to be there for once…if they'd just…he wouldn't have ended up saying yes to Karofsky, would he? Or at least, there was an infinitely smaller chance of him doing so. And now that he'd really said yes, Kurt didn't feel like he could get out.

His friends may well have locked him in this cage, mindless of the carnivorous beast within that was ever so pleased to tear him to shreds whilst his friends gossiped and exchanged sexual partners and sang their precious solos all around his destruction.

The fact of the matter was that they hadn't been there, and now Kurt honestly didn't feel like facing a single one of them.

Kurt stood abruptly, saying loudly, "Excuse me, Mr. Schuster, if I may just go to the auditorium? I have a few ideas for my solo audition that I'd like to work on, on my own…"

Mr. Schuster grinned, looking oddly almost relieved.

"That's fine, Kurt. The other kids are already working on something of their own anyway. Oh! Before you go, though, I just want to let you know- Santana, Tina, and Puck are also planning to audition. You'll probably all try out at extended after-school rehearsal Thursday."

Kurt frowned.

"What about Rachel and Mercedes? And Sam and Quinn or Mike and Brittany? Or Artie?"

"Well, I'm planning on telling everyone today, so lucky you to get to hear first. Ms. Pillsbury convinced me that I should give the less-obvious talent in this group the chance to shine at sectionals, instead of going with our usual recipe to success."

"Oh, Rachel will like that," Kurt muttered.

Schuster laughed.

"Well, Rachel's not in charge around here is she?"

Kurt pursed his lips, shooting his teacher a doubtful look, the expression eliciting another burst of mirth.

"Okay, she's not anymore."

Kurt still doubted Schue, but whatever. Stuff like this was always temporary, but when it came to Rachel Berry…well, all bets were pretty much off.

"Whatever you say Mr. Schue…Um, do you think I could spend both other rehearsals in the auditorium as well?"

He already hadn't wanted to face his classmates when they were just being themselves, but when they were feeling bitchy about solos and everything? There was no way his nerves could take that today.

"After school is fine, but not during," Schuster's voice was stern and Kurt was tempted to scoff. Seriously? He chose now to be authoritative?

"You haven't been in the choir room with everyone else for far too long, Kurt."

"It hasn't even been a full week, and I had an excuse for the day after my Dad's wedding," Kurt reasoned.

Mr. Schuster shook his head.

"Sorry, Kurt, but I'm not budging on this one. I'm announcing what I told you that period, and we're going to discuss some things as a group. Attendance is not optional."

Kurt forced yet another polite smile. He was nothing if not a gentlemen…Well, when it came to adults at least. Most of the time.

"Fine. Although, I'd appreciate if you'd tell Rachel this morning instead of later? I'm still not feeling well, and a Rachel Berry bitch-fit could easily kill me right now."

Hey, a little hyperbole never hurt anyone.

"Hey, language. And I'll think about it, alright?" Mr. Schuster appeased him. "Just remember to show up for class today, okay Kurt?"

"Fine. I'll see you then, Mr. Schue."

"Good luck. You'll have your work cut out for you," Schuster said in his I-think-I'm-cool voice.

Kurt did scoff this time, but he didn't deign to give an actual reply, simply adjusting his messenger his bag and walking out the door with head held high and not a hair out of place.

The halls were thankfully still mostly empty, so Kurt reached the auditorium fairly quickly, hurrying down to the stage.

He took out his ipod and took a seat on the piano bench, letting his fingers rest on the keys and the rest of the world melt away.

He'd been musing over what to sing for his solo-audition for sectionals since he'd first been informed of the opportunity, and he still hadn't made a decision, though it helped matters to know that he wouldn't be facing off against Rachel or Mercedes, who he considered his greatest competitors talent-wise. Of course, Puck had quite the good voice as well, as did Santana, but his range killed them both.

That and his vocal-control had to be his greatest tools against Puck and Santana, in addition to his ability to emote, an area he was sure he actually did beat out everyone else in, quite consistently.

Still, their voices were of a more mainstream variety, so they had that edge over him…Kurt would just have to choose a song with a decent range and emotional quality then. He knew those he was up against and, frankly, only Tina was at all discerning when it came to more classic songs, at least in his experience. Puck and Santana had more mainstream taste in addition to vocals. Tina had better variety musically, but they all beat her when it came to strength and control, so no matter how well she did, Kurt was positive he didn't have to worry much about her…

If Santana and Puck both went mainstream, Kurt's best chance was at doing what he did best. He had to stand out.

Broadway? It was accessible and definitely an obvious choice when it came to Kurt's voice, but…he felt that a less apparent choice was what this audition demanded. He needed an element of surprise genre-wise.

So…Kurt mentally scrolled through a list of songs that fit the bill, then, when that failed, picked up his iPod and began scrolling through…wait…

Kurt frowned. He'd have to adjust some of the notes a bit, to better suit his range and style, but otherwise.

Perfect.

He smiled. He even had the sheet music in a folder in his backpack he was pretty sure.

He'd considered singing them before, but had only printed the sheet music because of the piano present in every song.

He was determined to kill it this time around. There would be no Defying-Gravity like self-sabotage this time around

He just… He needed to get this one thing right, so, so much.

Kurt opened the flap of his messenger bag, extracted the sheet music, and began to play.

* * *

Not even twenty minutes after Kurt left the choir room, Rachel Berry was in a _rage_.

Who did Mr. Schuster think he was?

She was the most talented person in this whole state, she was sure, and she was the only respectable choice to solo at sectionals if they wanted to win.

No disrespect to Kurt or anyone, but it was true! She was a star, and she wasn't meant to be shuffled to the background! That was for...well…everyone else!

Well, that was just fine. She'd tell everyone else when they arrived, and-

Oh!

She'd show Mr. Schuster. She'd just have to bend the rules and do a solo. Show him exactly what he was trying to shove into the background. Which meant, of course, that she'd need to use tonight to start looking through her music. That was fine. Although, it meant calling off rehearsal for their song for Kurt, but it was probably for the…wait. Perfect. She'd really show Schue. She'd solo in a few days and she'd have their number for Kurt ready to go by…class time, hopefully. A morning rehearsal, one during lunch. They could pull it off.

Or at least, she could. And that was all that really mattered anyway, wasn't it?

Rachel nodded to herself. They could do this.

She was just glad that Mr. Schuster had told her what he was planning in the morning, when her spirits were at their natural best, and on an individual basis. If she'd reacted the way she had in front of everyone else, Rachel had no doubt she would have somehow upset the rest of the group. Santana especially.

Their group dynamic had been suffering a bit recently anyhow. This was probably for the best.

And their number for Kurt didn't have to be as incredible as she'd initially planned. Her solo work was much more important. She was sure he'd understand.

The rest of the members of New Directions began to file in, and Rachel cast Mr. Schuster a glance. She'd let him announce his travesty of a decision to the group, and she'd keep her mouth shut about it (she could pour her frustration into her song after all), and then she'd announce her own decision about the number for Kurt, and they'd get to work.

It was perfect.

* * *

Kurt had a bad feeling about Glee today. A very bad feeling.

Not that it mattered, really.

Still, he was dreading it almost as much as he was seeing Karofsky…Dave... tonight.

Kurt had spent the entirety of the day thus far avoiding his friends rather successfully. Surprisingly so, really. Kurt was stuck between thinking that they were also avoiding him, and the niggling voice in the back of his head questing the idea that they even cared.

Kurt gingerly took a seat in the back again and got out his iPod, rifling through his songs until he found the song by The Fray that he'd chosen and played it once more, feeling the lyrics sink into him.

His headphones were torn abruptly from his ears, and Kurt jerked away, tumbling to the floor with a hard thunk.

He scowled up at Finn.

"What are you doing?" he asked his step-brother irritably as he pulled himself up and began to inspect his clothing.

"Whoa, scary Kurt."

Kurt raised an eyebrow at Finn, who was looking more sheepish and uncomfortable by the minute.

"Hey, Finn, what'd you do to my boy?" Mercedes.

The sounds of the rest of New Directions beginning to enter the room met Kurt's ears, and he sighed, settling back into his chair.

It wasn't worth it.

He'd expected to feel more fury than he did at the sight of his glee-mates, but all Kurt felt was let-down and sad. There was a hollowness in his chest that beat a steady ache where his happiness usually perched and fluttered.

Kurt crossed his arms over his waist and tipped his chin up, a distant, polite attempt at a smile disfiguring his lips, particularly out of place against the dullness of his cerulean gaze.

"Kurt," Rachel exclaimed.

Kurt pulled his gaze forcefully from the door and over to the small girl at the front of the room. She was grinning.

Grinning.

Despite the fact that he knew she was aware of the news concerning solos at sectionals, Rachel Berry was grinning.

This could not be good.

"Yes, Rachel?" Kurt asked slowly.

He noticed the way everyone in the class seemed to be watching him.

Oh, no. They wouldn't…

"The other members of New Directions and I have noticed lately how off you seem. I've found that on the rare occasions my fantastic health begins to fade, music never fails to restore my spirits and keep my condition on the mend. Therefore, I've-"

Finn winced out a "We've, you mean", while Santana muttered Spanish curses under her breath and several other members cast Rachel irritated looks.

"Right. I had all of us put together a number to let you know we're here for you. Everyone?"

Rachel nodded at the band, and Puck and Sam both stood and went to stand around the band along with Artie, guitars at the ready.

The music started and a blush of anger stole over Kurt's cheeks.

Who did his friends think they were?

Finn started, the others slowly joining to harmonize:

" _So no one told you life was gonna be this way_ _  
_ _Your job's a joke, you're broke, your love life's D O A._

Rachel took over, and Kurt's fists clenched in his pockets.

_It's like you're always stuck in second gear_ _  
_ _When it hasn't been your day, your week_ _  
_ _Your month or even your year but-_

Everyone's voices joined together for the chorus.

_I'll be there for you_ _  
_ _(When the rain starts to pour)_ _  
_ _I'll be there for you_ _  
_ _(Like I've been there before)_ _  
_ _I'll be there for you_ _  
_ _('Cause you're there for me too)_

This time Artie started off the second verse, Puck joining in at the end of its second line.

Tears of anger began to blur Kurt's vision.

_You're still in bed at ten and work began at eight_ _  
_ _You've burned your breakfast so far things are going great_ _  
_ _Your mother warned you there'd be days like these_ _  
_ _But she didn't tell you when the world_ _  
_ _Has brought you down to your knees that_ _  
_

They were swaying around and beaming at him, the way they'd done in their version of "Lean on Me" for Finn and Quinn last year, and Kurt wanted nothing more than to yell at them to stop.

_I'll be there for you_ _  
_ _(When the rain starts to pour)_ _  
_ _I'll be there for you_

_(Like I've been there before)_ _  
_ _I'll be there for you_ _  
_ _('Cause you're there for me too)_ _  
_

They had no right to sing this song to him.

They hadn't been there! This whole performance…it was so cheap. Just a bunch of cheap promises that hadn't been kept before and wouldn't be in the future.

A tear slipped loose from his hold, despite his best efforts to restrain it.

_No one could ever know me, no one could ever see me_ _  
_ _Since you're the only one who knows what it's like to be me_ _  
_ _Someone to face the day with, make it through all the rest with_ _  
_ _Someone I'll always laugh with_ _  
_ _Even at my worst, I'm best with you, yeah_

_It's like you're always stuck in second gear_

_When it hasn't been your day, your week_ _  
_ _Your month, or even your year_

_I'll be there for you_

_(When the rain starts to pour)_ _  
_ _I'll be there for you_ _  
_ _(Like I've been there before)_ _  
_ _I'll be there for you_ _  
_ _('Cause you're there for me too)_

_I'll be there for you_

_('Cause you're there for me too)_

There was a long moment of silence when the music died away, and then Kurt stood up, grabbed his bag, and left, muttering as he passed his friends for no-one to follow him.

He couldn't do this right now. And if he stayed, he'd end up snapping and Kurt really didn't want to do that, no matter how much it felt like they deserved it.

He knew his fury was irrational.

They couldn't know what they'd missed, had no idea of how much of a slap in the face they were giving him with that song.

And the gesture itself was almost nice.

The thing was…

It was just like with his Dad's heart attack.

His friends had prayed for him, and sung for him, and that was nice of them to do, but it wasn't what he'd needed.

What he'd needed was for his best friends, his other family, to be there, like they were saying they would be in their song. He'd needed them at his side, holding him, supporting him, not adding to the pressure on his chest, not making him work to please them and believe in something for them on top of everything else. It was the same as now.

Their platitudes were always nice, but that didn't make up for the emptiness they contained within.

Kurt entered the boy's bathroom, and went to the mirror, pulling out a few moist towlettes as he went. He stared quietly at his own reflection, then slowly raised a wipe and began rubbing it softly over the traces of tears and hectic spots on his cheeks.

He could handle this, just like he had before.

Kurt Hummel was fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song credit:  
> New Directions-- "I'll be there for you" by The Rembrandts.


	10. Point of Contention

_"It_ _has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.”_

_\---Chaos Theory_

…

___"There’s a ripple effectin all that we do. What you do touches me; what I do touches you.”_

**_\---_ ** _Anonymous_

_~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~_

"Alright white boy. Level with me? What's going on with you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kurt told her.

Mercedes scowled, placing two cinnamon rolls on her plate for school breakfast. When she'd asked Kurt to meet her early at school and eat with her, she'd hoped for the talk she was after to go far smoother than this looked like it would be.

"Okay, you need to not lie to me here."

Kurt pivoted to face her, setting his tray down on the counter.

"And why do you think I'm lying?" he asked furiously.

Mercedes raised an eyebrow.

"You're kidding me, right? Kurt, I can read you like a sale sign at JC. Look…I know you're not really fond of Rachel, but we were just trying to do something nice for you."

Kurt's eyes hardened.

"I don't need your pity or anything, Mercedes. And this isn't about Rachel."

"Well, then, what is it about?"

When he didn't answer and began to turn away, Mercedes grabbed his elbow. He gave her a pleading look that she chose to ignore.

Mercedes wasn't about to let him get away so easily. She couldn't.

"No walking away this time. Come on, Kurt. You're not talking to any of us. We're worried."

"You don't seem very worried to me," Kurt muttered.

"Oh, don't pull that whole martyr act," Mercedes groaned. "You know we [love you](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/10/Vibrato) and we're always here for you. We were there for the Karofsky thing weren't we? We took care of it. He doesn't seem to be bothering you as much these days."

Kurt took a shaky breath and Mercedes looked worried.

"Is there something you're not telling us? You know all you have to do is say the word and the guys will all go talk to him again. It looked like it worked the first time. If he's starting shit again, you just have to tell us and-"

"Everything's fine," Kurt interrupted her quietly. "I'm just stressed is all. I'm sorry."

Mercedes didn't really buy that, but she nodded anyway.

"There's a sale," she said hopefully. "After school. I'm sure we could both use the calming effect of some retail therapy right about now. You in?"

Kurt paused, then smiled and nodded his acquiescence, and Mercedes's heart beat a little faster. It felt like forever since the last time she'd seen him smile, and while it wasn't exactly up to his old standards, the expression felt genuine.

"Good," she sighed, slipping her hand from his elbow and looping their arms together. He watched the movement warily, but she [paid](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/10/Vibrato) no mind.

"You gonna pick that tray [back up](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/10/Vibrato) now?"

"Um…" Kurt glanced at it, and Mercedes followed suit. He'd put practically nothing on there so far.

Kurt picked up the tray and frowned at it.

"Actually, I'm not very hungry," he mumbled, moving forward to tip the tray's contents into the trash.

Mercedes's objection died on her tongue.

She and Kurt barely talked these days, and while normally she wouldn't be shy about stating her opinion on anything between them, they'd already argued once and she didn't want to make the gulf between them any bigger by rocking the boat too much. Plus, she knew how defensive Kurt was about being able to take care of himself. If she were to pry any more, chances were she'd lose the chance to even shop with him today, and they hadn't done that since after her "bad date" with Anthony Rashad (something she still felt bad about telling him, because Anthony _was_ cute, and she was sure a date with him would have gone well… if she'd ever allowed one to happen).

Instead, she groped mentally for a subject change, quickly switching gears to glee club.

"So, are you ready to do your solo later today?"

Kurt nodded.

"My choice isn't quite as glamorous as usual, but it works for what it is, and it perfectly shows off my versatility vocally."

"So…what is it?"

Kurt gave her one of his sly smiles, and Mercedes beamed back. Her chest hurt a little seeing the expression.

"Guess you'll just have to wait and see," he winked.

Mercedes laughed and subconsciously pulled him in a little closer.

* * *

A long thirty minutes later, Kurt perched himself on the piano bench on the main stage in the auditorium, having finally escaped Mercedes's piercing worry. He hated that she was supposedly so concerned for him, first because it genuinely didn't feel like she was (and no matter what she said about being there, the fact was that reality showed a different truth than that of such platitudes), and also because he really didn't want that kind of attention.

It didn't even matter if he wanted to tell her, if he wanted her help, anyway.

All of his friends had been too late. **He was trapped**. Nothing they could do anymore.

Kurt sighed softly, letting his fingers rest on the piano keys, and slowly drifted into a slower, more instrumental version of the song he'd chosen for his "audition". His own version.

After a few moments, eyes closed, his voice joined with the melancholy notes of the piano, lilting into the air, unabashed, and yet, quiet and lamenting, mournful and desperate and angry and haunting in the thick air, spindling away into the dim spotlights and empty seats.

" _Heaven Forbid…"_

* * *

"You're coming today, right?" Puck asked Kate Milson. She turned around, and he shot her a cheesy grin.

Oh yeah. Turning on the charm.

"Excuse me?" she asked wearily.

"For Glee club. You'll audition today."

"I don't believe I ever actually said yes…" Kate said slowly.

Puck shrugged.

"You can come in during lunch if you want. We're doing this diva-off thing again for a solo at sectionals, so that's kinda the only time slot available."

Kate pursed her lips, pulled out her iPod, and put in the earbuds.

Puck reached over and flicked one out.

The girl actually growled.

"Please tell me I'm hallucinating, and you did not actually just touch my headphones. Let alone take one out."

She was using the all-suffering voice Puck's mom used sometimes when she decided to get super-Jewish or try being extremely strict. Of course, normally her bipolar and depression prevented it from really coming across right, but it was still the sort of thing that set off warning bells in Puck's head now when any woman started using it.

He shrugged.

"I'll see you in Glee?"

Kate ran her fingers through a loose curl irritably.

"I told you I wasn't sure," she reminded him.

Puck scoffed.

"You said you needed it, actually, from what I remember." When Kate didn't reply, he continued, "Look, I know Glee's really gay and shit, but it's not as bad as you'd think. I used to think it was stupid too, but I saw the truth soon enough, and I'm a stud. If the Puckster can start liking it, you can too."

Kate groaned.

"Fine," she harrumphed. "Shut up now, and I'll be there."

"Great," Puck grinned. "Remember to be ready to sing."

And Puck swaggered away.

* * *

Ice cold.

Dripping, freezing.

God, it was freezing.

Kurt moaned inwardly, one hand rising to scrape over a drenched cheekbone, meeting razor ice. Blue Rasberry.

That had been his favorite when he was little, along with cherry.

Now, of course, he hated them both.

Kurt swallowed the teary feeling that always rose immediately after being hit with slushie, no matter how used to it you were, and scurried wearily to the boys bathroom, opening the door and scanning the room carefully before entering.

He occasionally went into the girls if he was with a friend, and admittedly preferred it; After all, in there the worst he got from anyone were some rude comments, and he could outbitch McKinley girls any day (well, with the exception of Santana and Quinn from time to time, as well as a few other Cheerios), whereas in the boys' he was often the target for much more than a bit of cruel snark.

Over the years, he'd experienced things going from as mild as a bit of jostling that knocked him just a tad too hard into the wall to almost being drowned in a toilet (he'd literally ended up blacking out for a few seconds once) to the time in ninth grade when a bunch of seniors had decided he was actually a girl playing pretend and had sought to prove it (Kurt tended to pretend that that last hadn't happened. The humiliation and terror was still alive and well, even nearly two years later, and it was one of the reasons he'd reacted so strongly to Karof- Dave's…Karofsky's gibes about his sex that day in the janitor's closet).

Still, he usually went into the boy's, if only to fend off the continuing rumors that he was a "transgendered freak" or hermaphrodite or whatever it was everyone was saying. Honestly, the terminology in the rumors changed so much each time he heard it anew that there was no way for him to keep track these days. Not that it mattered. The gist always remained the same.

Kurt was just glad that McKinley didn't have an actual transgender/genderqueer student. They'd have been eaten alive by these Titan Jerks.

Kurt cast a disgusted eye about himself, before carefully going to the first stall, hanging up his messenger bag, and locking the door, slipping easily beneath the stall's door with his slushie-supplies in hand and walking to the mirror.

He removed a cloth from the slushie/dumpster-cleaning kit he'd made himself after his first few months at McKinley and began to fastidiously clean the disgusting blue sludge from his hair, then from his face (the two emergency areas) before proceeding to slowly peel off the fabric of his blue button up from the gooseflesh beneath.

Kurt then proceeded to remove a small bottle of comet from his kit and clean out a selected sink. That done, he removed a different cloth that would cover the drain and began filling up the sink. Classes be damned; this shirt was Versace and it needed to be soaked if he wanted to even have a chance of removing the stain. Fortunately, the jocks had for once chosen a flavor that didn't clash horribly with the color of his garment, and thus the damage was less apparent. Good luck for him.

The door opened behind him.

Kurt tensed, focusing his eyes on the soapy water in the sink.

He'd learned long ago that it was best to avoid unnecessary eye contact, too.

"Fairy. What the hell are you doing in my bathroom? Girls go next door."

 _Oh, great_ , Kurt thought caustically. _Azimio_.

A part of Kurt he chose not to acknowledge wanted to be crude, and point out that with Kurt only wearing an undershirt, it was quite apparent that he wasn't female.

However, he resisted, and merely grimaced at the water, reaching in and shifting the material.

"Really? I had no idea," he retorted acerbically.

"Dude," Azimio was next to him in a flash. "You betta shut the hell up, lady, before your face meets my pain."

"Oh you've got to be kidding me," Kurt said, mirth alighting on his face as he finally turned his head to face the larger boy. "Let me guess- pain is the name of your fist? Between you and David, I don't know who's more creatively-inclined. Really. It's intimidating."

"Ho ho ho," Azimio said in a dark voice.

Kurt's lips twitched upward.

"Well, there you go! You just proved it; You're absolutely the bigger moron, santa claus."

Hands gripped Kurt's undershirt and he was torn from the sink and shoved hard into the wall. He sneered as best he could at the jock in front of him.

"Using the pain huh? Not surprising. Most Neanderthals just barely know how to do more than grunt, swing their fists, and stand up straight, let alone," Kurt slowed his speech, carefully enunciating each syllable: "Use..their..words."

Azimio scoffed angrily, tossing his head, nostrils flaring, and Kurt was pretty sure that now would be about the time to . but he hadn't been able to really stand up this way to one of the jocks since Karofsky had kissed him the first time in the locker room, and while that had a large part of Kurt panicking, he was mostly reveling in the freedom of being able to release his pent up anger and exhaustion, without a credible threat of being killed or groped.

So, he kept going, tacking on: "Experiment! Can you figure out the meaning of the word im-be-cile. I know it's hard, so I'll give you a," Azimio slammed a fist into Kurt's stomach and he gasped out the word "hint".

The fist drove, yet again, into his abdomen, and Kurt's vision went a little fuzzy around the edges as the little air he'd managed to get in was flung once more from his lungs. He took a deep, shuddering breath, eyes tightly closed, then, weakly, "The fashion atrocity known as a Letterman jacket is frequently involved."

He was shoved back against the wall again, wincing as his back, still bruised from locker-checks, made contact.

He was preparing for another hit when Azimio groaned loudly and released him, whining: "Damn, I have to piss!"

Kurt's left eyebrow drew up, and he cracked his gaze.

"Crude," he huffed.

"Don't give me your shit, Hummel," Azimio exclaimed, his voice still very noticeably a whine. "I don't want your fairy ass checking out my junk when I'm trying to use the bathroom."

Kurt's right eyebrow elevated to join his left.

"I don't have x-ray vision," he snapped. "And, frankly, I'd check out _Rachel Berry_ before I checked out you."

Azimio frowned.

"I'm a dude, though. And you like dick, not pussy."

"Is crudeness all you can comprehend?" Kurt asked derisively. "Yes, I am attracted to boys, not girls. That was the point-"

"You're calling me a girl?"

"I'm sorry, didn't you have to use the facilities?" Kurt asked tersely.

Azimio's lips drew into a line.

"I don't want you checkin' me out."

"Once again, I would never in a million years check you out," Kurt exclaimed, his frustration mounting. It was like talking to a brick wall!

"Yeah right, fruitloop. If you're into dudes, and I'm a dude-"

Scratch that. A brick wall would probably be more receptive. And Kurt really needed to get to class. He'd probably only get to fourth period a few minutes before it ended. Sometimes he really wished he didn't go to this stupid school…

"Azimio. I do not like you," Kurt enunciated sharply. "Are you attracted to say…Coach Sylvester? Or Ms. Estrada? Or Coach Beiste? Or even Rachel?"

Azimio glowered, his ankles crossing anxiously.

"That's different."

"Well, when you have a well thought out warrant for your claim, then you can talk, but for now, I'm not Superman, who, by the way, absolutely needs a costume reboot because you simply do not wear two primary colors together that way no matter how amazing the spandex might make your thighs look, and… I don't see through walls."

Kurt waved his hand flippantly towards a stall once more, then haughtily strode past the jock and back to the sink that had his shirt in it.

"Weird-ass ass-bandits," Azimio muttered, but he went anyway, and Kurt turned on the faucet. He _really_ didn't want to hear whatever Azimio intended to do in there.

Kurt extracted a folded up plastic bag from his "kit" and carefully wrung out his shirt before laying it smoothly in the plastic, zipping the bag up carefully, then refolding it and tucking it under his arm as he busied himself with unplugging the drain, and trying to get everything packed away by the time Azimio emerged.

He shimmied under the door to the first stall, glad Azimio had chosen the one in the furthest corner (he would have really hated to try explaining himself to the homophobic jock), and placed the "kit" back in his bag before grabbing it and unlocking the door.

Fortunately, Azimio was still in the stall, so Kurt quickly turned off the sink he'd left slightly on and darted out.

He had to wonder as he hurried to his locker and then to the class for which he was roughly twenty minutes late what Azimio would do if he ever found out the truth about his so-called best friend.

* * *

"First on the agenda," Will Schuster began, grinning enthusiastically at the assembled students comprising New Directions. "We're welcoming a new student into our midst, a theatre transfer, Kate Milson."

Kate stood awkwardly at the front of the room, waving slightly when she heard her name.

"Kate, you're ready to audition, correct?" Mr. Schue asked.

Kate sighed, casting a quick glance over the choir room, her eyes soon alighting on a stool upon which she went to place her backpack and spare binder.

She wasn't particularly thrilled to be doing this, but she did need the credit, and while Noah Puckerman was annoying and Rachel Berry she knew to be incredibly grating, she figured not all the gleeks could be that bad.

And besides, she did enjoy singing and performing, even if it wasn't something she wanted to actually pursue. The song she'd chosen was a recent find and quick favorite, and the accompaniment was simplistic enough that when she'd shown her boyfriend Matthew, who played guitar in the jazz band and was presently watching her with a subtle smile, he'd been absolutely confident he and the others would have no issues learning it by the afternoon.

And Kate had heard him complain, not too much but definitely enough, about the glee kids to know that he was telling the truth.

"You ready?" Mr. Schue asked.

Kate took a small, steadying breath, and nodded.

Matthew immediately started off, gently strumming at the guitar. Kate mentally counted out the fourteen beat introduction, and then, softly, began to sing.

" _I was a little girl alone in my little world who dreamed of a little home for me.  
I played pretend between the trees, and fed my houseguests bark and leaves, and laughed in my pretty bed of green._

_I had a dream_   
_That I could fly from the highest swing._   
_I had a dream."_

Kate swayed slightly in time to the music, allowing her theatrical side to take over for gestures and expressions. As the next verse began, she began to walk forward, eyes on her audience as she sang out her story

_"Long walks in the dark through woods grown behind the park, I asked God who I'm supposed to be._   
_The stars smiled down on me, God answered in silent reverie. I said a prayer and fell asleep._

_I had a dream_   
_That I could fly from the highest tree._   
_I had a dream."_

She sucked in a breath, looking skyward as she went through the lamenting chorus, letting the last phrase fall plaintive and a little angry into the air. Her voice waned a bit, and she heard her vibrato heighten a little too much, but didn't let it bother her. This was just like stumbling over a line or saying the wrong word in a scene; you just had to keep on going.

_Now I'm old and feeling grey. I don't know what's left to say about this life I'm willing to leave._   
_I lived it full and I lived it well, there's many tales I've lived to tell. I'm ready now, I'm ready now, I'm ready now to fly from the highest wing._

_I had a dream."_

Applause rose up, and Kate allowed herself a smile, catching the eye of her boyfriend, who was clapping as well, guitar strap slung easily over his shoulder.

That had been more fun than expected.

"Kate Milson," Mr. Schuster grinned, coming up and offering his hand. "Welcome to the Glee club!"

Kate smiled politely and shook his hand.

"Alright, now, before we start getting down to business, Kate, do you know everyone?"

She frowned.

"No. Just Rachel, because she lives on my street, and Puck. I have been acquainted with Artie for a while though," Kate offered.

Artie smiled at her, and she returned the gesture.

It was nice to have a familiar face in here that _didn't_ annoy her.

Kate had met Artie about a year ago when a video game/guy's night of Matthew's had run late, and she'd come over to go to the movies.

Something had come up at Artie's dad's work and the three of them plus another guy in jazz band, Thomas, had ended up hanging out for the rest of the night, she and Matt rescheduling their date for the next night.

"In that case, I want everyone to go around and say their name as well as one interesting thing about them."

The class groaned collectively and a latina girl scowled, sardonically muttering something about trying too hard, pathetic, and annoying games.

Kate simpered a bit, not particularly looking forward to the coming exchange, and Mr. Schuster pointed enthusiastically at a girl with blonde hair at the front of the room.

"Yes?"

"You have to tell the new girl your name and something about yourself, Brittany," Artie murmured.

She smiled brightly at Kate.

"Okay. I'm Brittany S. Pierce. I know that sounds like Brittany Spears…but it's not. I'm more talented than her. So is my cat. His name is Lord Tubbington. And he's on Atkins."

Kate smirked. God, this girl had a dry wit! She absolutely loved it. Saying a cat sang better than Brittney Spears but in a roundabout way that didn't even sound the least bit insulting, or envious, or uppity. That was fantastic.

"You already know who I am," Artie spoke up. "And Brittany's my girlfriend." The last part was pronounced proudly, and Kate understood why. She'd never seen a couple so very out of one another's leagues. But, hey, maybe Brittany was ridiculously intelligent, even if she was a cheerio. That would make it make more sense.

"I'm Mercedes Jones," a big, black girl spoke up. "I like to design some of my own clothes, and if you want some fashion advice, me and my boy Kurt are the ones to go to."

She gestured to a pale boy sitting in the highest row, a polite, distant smile perched on his thin, pink lips. His hair and clothing were utterly immaculate, and his attire wasn't exactly what Kate would ascribe as boy's clothing, even if it didn't seem to be made for girl's.

Kate was generally out of touch when it came to the gossip mill, but even she wasn't out of the know about this boy, even if it was the first time she'd really seen him.

Word was, he was gay. Openly.

And girly, and weird. A few people had actually said he was just a girl in hiding.

She didn't think she believed that last one, seeing as he had a bit of a masculine jaw line, very angular and hard, while girls tended to have softer faces, or at least their jaw line's weren't quite so sharp. And that was only his face.

But still. Looking at him now, Kate had no doubt the other rumors were true.

She wasn't sure how comfortable she was with that…

She didn't actually have a problem or anything with gay guys or girls. Kate wasn't into PDA or knowing the sexual side of anyone other than herself and the person she was with. Just, it weirded her out a bit, and, having been raised in a very Christian household, she didn't really think it was right. But, she also believed quite strongly in the ideas of "hate the sin, love the sinner" and "judge not let ye yourself be judged", so she worked to quell her discomfiture. She'd just have to get to know him.

In Glee only, of course. Kate wasn't too big on status, but she'd prefer not to make herself a target in her last year at McKinley.

"Mike Chang," an Asian boy spoke up. "I pretty much love to dance."

"Tina Cohen-Chang." Another Asian, though this one a girl and obviously gothic. "And, just saying, his abs are mine."

The pair of them grinned at each other, Mike muttering something about loving her, and then immediately began to make out.

Kate looked away, nose wrinkling.

"I'm Quinn," another blonde girl spoke up. "Fabray. I'm the lead Cheerio."

Kate nodded. She'd heard about Quinn Fabray as well, last year. Supposedly she'd been pregnant.

"I'm Sam," the boy next to her smiled widely.

Wow, he had a humongous mouth…

"Sam I am. And I don't-"

"Seriously?" Quinn asked him. "Is that how you introduce yourself everywhere?"

"Maybe," Sam replied, cheerily. "Nìwotx krr tìftxey 'ärìp-rel uniltìrantokx. And then it's all the Lord of the Rings movies. _'My Precious…'_ Golem."

Kate's mouth fell slightly ajar. His Golem impression was actually really good, but even Matthew rarely got _tha_ t dorky. And he played WoW…

"Santana," the latina from earlier said blankly. "And all you gots to know, is I keep it real, okay? If you look ugly or say something ridiculously dorky. Like Sam," She shot a look at Sam, whose expression fell, "Don't expect me to not tell you. I will. Just being honest."

Kate was just shocked Mr. Schuster was letting her get away with saying shit. That was…ridiculous. Did he not have eyes? Or ears?

"You already know the Puckster. And that I'm a badass. The interesting thing is I can kick anyone's ass in both Halo and Assassin's Creed. I also own Mario Cart and brawl. I'm a totally dominatrix."

Kate hadn't even been in class with these kids for thirty minutes and already she was getting a headache.

Was everyone in this glee club a loser with a huge ego? She didn't mind Artie, and Sam had seemed very nerdy, but at least that had been in a way that was pretty cute. Mercedes seemed egotistical, but friendly, and Brittany had been admittedly hilarious.

Still. Quinn came off as an uppity bitch. Santana came off the same, but a million times meaner, and less fake and spoiled. Mike and Tina seemed codependent on one another's mouths. And way too sexualized for a public venue. Puckerman practically matched Rachel in the ego department. He was actually almost worse.

"Finn Hudson. I'm the quarter back."

Dopey. Pompous. Pretty clichéd. Very naïve. But, also relatively nice in a clueless way, which was good enough. He'd be tolerable.

"You of course know me. I'm Rachel Michelle Berry. I have two gay dads and someday I'll be in all the tabloids. My dads named me Rachel Michelle because they were obsessed with Friends and thought that Michelle on Full House, played by the young Mary Kate and Ashley Olsens, was incredibly adorable. I agree, and plan on someday being a much bigger star than the entirety of their casts put together."

Rachel was just…Rachel. Unfortunately, Kate detected nothing new there.

"I'm Kurt Hummel," the gay boy spoke up, and whoa…was that his real voice? "And one day…one day I'll be out of here as well. I'm going to be rich and someone important…Finn's also my step-brother. And, yes I'm gay." His voice had gone from obligatory to defensive and desperate to awkward to bored. Kate doubted she'd ever met anyone who seemed as…emotional, and expressive, before. Nor anyone who was nearly as conspicuously different.

Something also seemed off about him.

Kate smiled vaguely at him, and his nose wrinkled distrustfully. She swallowed and turned her attention onto Mr. Schue. He directed her to take a seat, any seat, and she slowly took one next to Artie, grateful for the empty space next to someone she both knew, and who was relatively sane in her experience.

Mr. Schue clapped, and beamed at them.

"And now…" he paused dramatically, and then: "Diva off time!"

* * *

Kurt tensed as he watched Santana. Her song was _Valerie_ by Amy Winehouse, and it was _good_ … Very good actually. Energetic, too. Everyone looked very into it, and he was starting to feel the heat despite himself.

Before the new girl had joined and made their required twelve a surplus (and unlucky!) thirteen, he'd been fine.

Kurt knew he was amazing and talented.

But he also knew that his style was very unique, and, much as he hated to admit it, not really as popular as everyone else's.

His fellow Glee members were all quite talented in their own right, but they were also all of a more "mainstream" variety, whereas Kurt…wasn't.

And he loved that! He loved that he was different, and that his voice could do things absolutely no one else's could.

It was still something of a disadvantage.

When there was only twelve members of the group, it didn't matter if you messed up or were too different or too busy; Everyone was necessary to compete, and that was that.

Now, though, there were thirteen. There was an extra member, and they were even more than that. They, she, this _Kate_ girl, had been hired specifically to replace him, _just in case_.

That fact put Kurt on edge.

It also, maybe just a little, pissed him off.

He was next so…Kurt slid carefully to his feet, nodding at Brad, who moved from the piano.

For this, Kurt wanted to do the orchestration himself. A more intimate relation to the music, for a song that felt intimate for him.

He took a deep breath, and began to play, timing the beats in his head before he softly joined in, working to start his vocals within the lower area of his range.

" _Twenty years it's breaking you down, now that you understand there's no one around._ _  
_ _Take a breath, just take a seat, you're falling apart and tearing at the seams._ _  
_

He rose his voice cautiously, letting it swell into a note of sadness and vulnerability, touched softly with a brush of wistfulness and desperation.

_Heaven forbid you end up alone and don't know why_ _  
_ _Hold on tight wait for tomorrow, you'll be alright_

_It's on your face, is it on your mind? Would you care to build a house of your own?_

The desperation and intensity rose as he sang the next line.

_How much longer, how long can you wait?_

And, really, how much longer could he wait? No longer.

_It's like you wanted to go and give yourself away._

Karofsky's image popped into his head unbidden, and for once Kurt didn't push it away, instead letting the emotions it stirred within him pour out into his voice.

_Heaven forbid you end up alone and don't know why_ _  
_ _Hold on tight wait for tomorrow, you'll be alright_

_It feels good. Is that reason enough for you._

_It feels good. Is that reason enough for you._

_Heaven forbid you end up alone and don't know why_

_Hold on tight wait for tomorrow, you'll be alright_ _…_

_…Out of this one…_

_Don't know how to get you out of this one, don't know how to get you out of this one,_ _  
_ _Don't know how to get you out of this one, don't know how to get you out of this one…"_

There was a smattering of applause, and Kurt noticed for the first time the strange expressions adorning his peers' faces. And his teacher's for that matter.

He clenched his fist over his knee, stomach squirming.

He knew right away that he wouldn't be winning the competition.

The song was too slow. The performance was too emotional, and too personal. His choice had been too unexpected. All the odds were stacked against him.

Well, that was fine. Kurt knew he'd killed the hell out of that song.

And that was more important than his friends getting it, or voting him in for a solo.

Kurt had been a little more broken these days, a little more scared and insecure, but he was still proud to be himself and happy to be different. And he knew his name would be getting at least one vote, even if that vote was his own. He still felt that he'd won in a way already, released something into the air, some sentiment he'd been needing to express to his friends. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but he knew he'd gotten it out.

He just wasn't sure if his friends were as much at a loss as he was.

* * *

Finn barely heard Tina's solo.

Not that it wasn't good, or, heck great, after all he barely heard the voice of the once-stutterer at all these days. She hadn't really flown solo since True Colors, way back before their first sectionals performance.

It was just…

He was worried about Kurt. He'd thought that Puck and him spending some time at Puck's place would give him time to chill out, and feel better.

But Kurt just seemed more strung-out and sad than ever, and…

Finn knew people thought he was dumb. He kind of was, a little bit. And he was cool with that or whatever.

But even he could tell Kurt's song had been some sort of cry for help thing, like they'd mentioned in the assembly freshman year when a girl killed herself at a nearby school.

The problem was that he didn't know what exactly Kurt was needing their help with. What was wrong? He never said anything to any of them, that was for sure.

He'd give it a week, he decided, as Tina finished and the peppy sound of Waking Up In Vegas faded away, tension resuming its hold on the choir room. At most two.

And if Kurt wasn't better by then, he was pulling out the big gun.

He'd go to Burt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credit(s):  
> Kate-- "Dream" by Priscilla Ahn  
> Kurt-- "Heaven Forbid" by The Fray


	11. Plans

_"It_ _has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.”_

_\---Chaos Theory_

…

 ___"There’s a ripple effectin all that we do. What you do touches me; what I do touches you.”_

 **_\---_ ** _Anonymous_

_~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~_

"Okay…" Puck said slowly, frowning as he examined Finn. He hit pause on the game they were playing and tossed his controller to the side, ignoring Finn's loud complaint. Puck was a total badass and a stud, but even he knew that this was too big a deal to be discussing during a game of Halo.

"Exactly how big of a moron are you?"

"What?"

Finn seemed surprised, which only pissed Puck off more.

Seriously, he had the nerve to get all pissy when Puck was honest with Kurt and trying to be helpful and awesome and stuff, and yet when Finn saw something suggesting that there was an _actual_ danger to Kurt's well-being he was this major pussy.

"You're telling me that Kurt's song today reminded you of an assembly we had on suicide and emo crap like that, and you think it's a good idea to give him another week or two before actually doing anything? Dude, that's so stupid. Brittany could probably have come up with a better idea!"

"I'm totally smarter than Brittany," Finn muttered sullenly.

Puck snorted derisively.

"Not really, man. Brittany may be slow on the uptake most of the time, but she gets _this_ stuff."

"She told Kurt heart attacks are from loving too much!"

"Yeah, and if I remember it right, that made Hummel feel better than you storming in and yelling at him like a damn pissed off yeti!"

Finn scowled down at the controller in his lap.

"And anyway, that was a while ago," he added defensively.

Like that made it so much better.

Puck rolled his eyes.

"I gotta tell you, with this and you pussying out and lying to Berry about being a virgin, I'm starting to see Sam's point about you not being leadership material."

"That's bull," Finn exclaimed, starting up.

"Well, prove it," Puck replied angrily, standing up as well.

Finn stared at him for a few seconds, before his eyes softened and he collapsed back onto the couch, head in his hands.

"I'm trying, y'know?" Finn said heavily after a moment. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong, though. I keep trying to do everything right and make everyone happy, but it seems like I just keep messing shit up… I know I should tell Burt," Finn added, still staring at his hands. "Right now. But I don't want Kurt to be mad at me. We only just became brothers. And you know what he's like. And he keeps saying how his Dad's still sick, and that it's his job to make sure he knows only the accessories or whatever, to make sure his heart stays good. Now that I'm Burt's son kind of to, I just keep thinking that Kurt obviously knows what's right, and I need to follow his example." Finn took a deep breath, and Puck fell heavily into the armchair again.

"I don't want Kurt mad at me, and I don't want to put Burt in the hospital again when it may actually be nothing, like Kurt says" Finn finished unhappily.

Puck tucked a hand into his Mohawk, thumbing over the soft ridge of hair at the back of his scalp.

"Honestly?" he said at last. "I kinda think Hummel's just being over the top about his Dad's health. But I get your point. Still, it's a pussy thing to do, to care more about Hummel not being pissed at you. What if it's more extreme than you think, and Hummel slits his wrists or some shit?"

"Kurt's not like that," Finn shrugged. "I know there's something up with him, but if things were that bad he'd tell someone."

"Doubtful," Puck retorted, irritation flaring again. "Besides didn't you say Hummel's song reminded you of one of those call for help warning-sign deals they talked about in a _suicide_ assembly?"

"Yeah…"

"So? What does that tell you?"

"I get it, okay? But I still don't want to piss off Kurt and risk hurting Burt on the off chance…Wow…their names are really close aren't they?"

Puck smirked.

"Alright. I've got an idea. You think Karofsky might have something to do with what's going on with Kurt, right?"

"Yeah," Finn said slowly. "After when Kurt was all messed up last week. I mean, it had to be him right?"

"I don't know about that. Hummel's cool, but like I've said before , dude's a complete flamer. That sort of thing attracts attention of a bad kind. But still, he seems like the most likely. And you know what that means?"

"Hell yeah," Finn grinned. Then, after a moment: "Actually, could you tell me? Just in case?"

* * *

"Hey Dad, how's the spa going?"

"Hate to say it kiddo, but you were right. I haven't felt this relaxed in years. Though I'm glad I got the chance to call you finally."

"Yeah. I told you," Kurt said happily. "Didn't I tell you?"

"You did, you did," Burt Hummel laughed in reply. Then, a little more somberly, "How've you been?"

"I'm fine, Dad," Kurt said quietly, disliking the change in mood. "Absolutely fine."

"I believe you…And Finn? How's he doing?" His Dad sounded slightly dubious as he professed his so-called belief, but this was quickly belied by the interest and concern in his questions about Finn.

"As far as I know, he's doing well," Kurt informed him. "He and Puck spent a few days at Puck's place, but as far as I know they should be back tomorrow. They said Friday last time we spoke."

Kurt shrugged vaguely, the gesture automatic despite the lack of an audience.

"Anyway, did you and Carole make a decision about if you're going to stay out there any longer?"

Without realizing he was doing so, Kurt held his breath. He wanted desperately to see his father, but, at the same time, he was scared to. He felt defiled, and filthy and weak, lately, and he was terrified that it was take his father one glance, one embrace, to see the layer of grime Kurt was coated in.

And he was terrified, too, because a part of him wanted that. Wanted his Daddy to see that something was wrong and fix it. But he didn't want to be another damaged car in the shop. And even if his daddy did fix things, he'd still never look at Kurt the same way.

Kurt knew his father. Knew how knowing the things that had happened would hurt him, so much.

Kurt wanted _needed_ his Daddy to come home and take care of him, but...he was still going to do his best to convince Burt to stay away a little longer, give Kurt some time to get used to the way things were, to fix his mangled mask.

His dad deserved some time away from him, a break from the drama and the chore of parenting and all that jazz. If he said no to Kurt's question, that he and Carole were going to be back in a few days as originally planned, Kurt would have to convince him otherwise. Just one more week. He needed this week to let his lies of "fine" start becoming the truth.

He figured if he told himself it enough, he could make it true.

There were no other options.

"Actually, Carole's sister Karen wanted us to visit. She felt bad that she and her husband couldn't make it to the wedding, y'know? And Carole and I are considering flying up there once we're done with this spa place, but only if you and Finn are okay with it. We would only be there a couple days."

"I think I speak for both Finn and I when I say that we can handle a couple extra days without you and Carole," Kurt laughed, relief and sadness waging a fierce war in his aching chest. His stomach throbbed.

"How long exactly would you and Carole be there?"

"They wanted us two or three days, to see the sights and all, but me and Carole agreed it would be best to talk to you and see how we get along with them before we set anything in stone."

Kurt hummed slightly in acknowledgement, then proceeded with, "So, wait. I don't really know much about Carole and Finn's extended family or anything…Where do they live?"

"Missouri, I think," Burt told him. "St. Louis. It's not too far from Ohio either, so Karen's husband is probably going to just drive us up in exchange for me doing some free auto-repairs."

"That's good…Oh, you'll get to see the arch," Kurt exclaimed excitedly. "You better take so many pictures!"

"Of course," Burt grumbled, and Kurt heard himself laugh.

"On second thought, I'll ask Carole to take over picture duties when I get a-"

The doorbell rang, and then the door opened.

Kurt sighed as David Karofsky came into sight, placing a finger against his lips in a shushing motion, before continuing.

"Let me know how the spa week finishes out, alright? "

"Yeah, yeah. How's the garage?"

"It's fine, Dad," Kurt sighed. "I actually have to go…I need to make some dinner before I head to the shop tonight. I told Alex and Kyle I'd close up, and I need to go over a few statements I sorted through for you. I might have scored a really good deal for you when you get back, too, and I need to tie up a few related loose ends."

He could hear his Dad's tounge clicking slightly through the phone. Karofsky was looking impatient.

"Just don't push yourself too much, okay , Kurt-o?"

Kurt smiled softly.

The concern in his daddy's voice made Kurt feel like a four year old crying over some small scratch or scrape all over again.

Kurt hoisted the cloak of his years and forced himself to speak.

"I'll be fine, Dad. I've got to go now though. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Call Finn alright? Once we hang up."

"Plannin' on it, kid," Burt said cheerily. "Get a good night's sleep, will you?"

"You too, Daddy. Love you."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Kurt could practically see his Dad's face crinkling as he tried to decide whether he should ask about the "daddy" they both knew Kurt only used when he was anything but fine, or if he should just let it slide.

Kurt closed his eyes, eardrums throbbing in the stabbing silence.

Finally, Burt simply said, "I Love you too kiddo. Goodnight." And Kurt said goodnight.

And that was that.

Lips were on his in an instant, hands tugging at his hair, at his clothes, arms, back, jacket sliding off and being passed somehow to Kurt's own hands, which folded the garment precisely and managed to set it on the table as his mouth, neck, cheeks, and jaw continued to be ravished.

Kurt couldn't help but think that this was becoming a little too routine for comfort…

Still, he didn't bother trying to push the older boy off. Instead, Kurt merely closed his eyes, and drifted away. For the next hour or so, Kurt played pretend as hands fell rough and soft over his skin. He was determined to be as strong in his weakness as he could possibly be, even though he wasn't all too sure what being so technically entailed. Thus, to that end, he went with it, drinking down the feeling of sex on his skin, and trying to decide if it would ever feel good beneath the twinges of lust, the way it seemed to be for every other teenager his age and all those that exchanged caresses beneath the spotlights on the Broadway stage.

He wanted it to be.

After all, beneath everything, Kurt was lonely, and he wanted more than anything to have that sort of company. To feel a little special and wanted, the way he did when he wore a particularly fashionable ensemble to school, or got a solo in Glee. Or when Blaine had taken his hand without falter and brought him to that common room. The way he'd felt as Teenage Dream played out in his ears. Except maybe, hopefully, even more.

Karofsky had indeed been right on that one count; Kurt was so very tired of feeling unwanted and alone.

He forced down the sick-feeling, with just a little more ease than he had the day before, and worked to get lost in the sensations of simply being touched.

* * *

Rachel Berry had found the perfect song.

Mr. Shuster wouldn't know what had hit him.

It would be perfect. Fantastic.

She just knew that she'd blow them all away.

She'd already contacted Tina and talked her into backing her up, as well as sent the sheet music to the members of the jazz band.

They'd all replied by now, surely, ready to heap their praise and wonder for her selection, and falling all over themselves with excitement to hear her perform such an iconic song.

Understandable of course.

Rachel was destined to be a star, and some day every one of the band members would be able to put on their resumes that they had once accompanied the Legendary Rachel Michelle Berry. It would be probably their greatest experience, and something they could look back on as a series of tremendously definitive moments in both her career and maybe even theirs. It was important to give back and, as Rachel had tried to explain to them many a time, their hard work paid off in an abundance of ways. Firstly, in helping her along her path to stardom, no matter how minor their contributions ultimately were, and, secondly, in that their future selves would be forever grateful _(and they had better remember that)_.

Mr. Schue would see tomorrow just how much he had been ignoring and suppressing her incredible talent and, finally, the focus solo-wise would be back on her. As it should be.

And, of course, on the off chance that Mr. Schuster remained blind, her audition was still bound to place her right back in the center of all things glee, where she belonged.

* * *

His leg was-

No, his pocket-

Vibrating. There was vibrating against his leg. Upper thigh.

That couldn't...-

"Hummel, are you gonna answer your phone or what?" Karofsky asked hotly against the shell of his ear.

Kurt groaned, moving his hand with no small margin of difficulty towards his left pocket, eyes fluttering closed as his fingers found warm metal and extracted it.

One new text.

Kurt struggled to keep his eyes open in the heavy atmosphere, moving a finger painstakingly slow to press open.

And then he started up, a breathless noise of excitement escaping his lips, utterly at attention.

Karofsky tumbled to the side, eyes narrowing as he took in Kurt's obliviously happy countenance, the countertenor looking to be fully enveloped in a world all of his own. That wasn't allowed. They were… _scratch that_. All that mattered was that Kurt was supposed to be his and his alone. And right now he didn't seem to be.

"Who is it?" he asked sullenly.

"Oh, no-one," Kurt smiled over his phone.

Dave scowled.

"Don't lie to me," he said quietly. His voice was an odd combination of angry and vulnerable. Kurt looked up, the happiness on his face sliding away, and, not for the first time, guilt clawed at Dave's insides.

"I'm sorry," Kurt muttered. And that should have been that. Except that it wasn't, and Dave couldn't stop himself from asking once again, "Who was it?"

Kurt's glasz gaze wavered minutely, then fell to Dave's shoulder as he answered.

"Blaine. He's my friend and I haven't heard from him in a while so…" he trailed off, catching Dave's searing glower, then starting up again, defensively. "He's just a friend, and I've missed him. There's absolutely no reason for you to be mad." Harder, still. Steeled. "I've done nothing wrong."

Karofsky's teeth gritted, then he heaved a sigh, his head going to rest in his hands.

"You mean that gay hobbit, don't you?" he sneered against his palms. "The private-school freak."

"He's not a freak," Kurt retorted, reddening visibly.

Dave lifted his head to stare at Kurt, eyes widening.

"You like him," he said quietly. "Seriously, Hummel?" Kurt glowered.

"Can you please stop talking down to me?" he hissed.

"I assume he doesn't like you back, though," Karofsky continued, feigning sympathy. "You too much of a chick for him? Or too small-town? My bet's on creepy, like with Finn, except this one's gay and he still doesn't like you."

Karofsky rolled over to straddle Kurt, only to be pushed roughly away.

"You said you weren't going to be like that when you were over here," Kurt said fiercely. "I suppose I should have known better than to think your word actually meant anything, of course."

Dave scowled.

"My word means plenty, Hummel."

"Then stop doing that already," Kurt retorted angrily. "I'm sick of it!"

"Fucking ice-bitch is back, huh? You think you get to call the shots? That's not how this works."

"I can expose you," Kurt said quietly, looking away.

"And I can kill you," Karofsky retorted.

Kurt's jaw clenched and his eyes burned.

"But your word means nothing, so your threats are probably all empty, anyway, aren't they? And, while you could, I highly doubt you have the balls in the first place. After all, you're king of the closet, aren't you?"

"I've got plenty of fucking balls," Karofsky yelled furiously, standing to tower over Kurt.

Kurt looked up at him, eyes cold.

"If you did you wouldn't have to threaten me so you could stay in the closet, nor would you be half so antagonistic."

"Antaga- You don't know shit, Hummel! You're the one with no balls here. You're like a fucking girl! I don't take shit from anyone. I'm a man. You, though, you never fight back. All you do is talk and sometimes cry in that annoying one-tear way people do in chick flicks. It's pathetic!"

"Crude violence is only necessary for those of us who have not evolved past caveman," Kurt scoffed.

Karofsky's hands snapped out to grip his collar, pulling the material, and by default Kurt, forward.

"I've got plenty of fucking balls, Kurt," Karofsky repeated. Kurt clenched his hands around Karofsky's forearms, nails digging in.

"Let me go," he said quietly. "Or I'll take your advice, and I'll kick you right in the balls you're so crazy about. So hard they fall off and prove me right."

Karofsky growled and pushed his arms forward, all but throwing Kurt back into the couch and retreated to the arm chair to the side of the couch.

"You're a fucking bitch," he muttered truculently.

Kurt curled himself inwards, holding his limbs tight.

"Sometimes," he agreed, voice softer, but still with a note of defiance. He tucked his chin down, shifting slightly to pull his phone back to himself and eye the text that had started this whole fight.

_**See you in a week and two days! Remember- Courage. Can't wait; May the best man win! =D** _

He smiled to himself. He'd really been missing Blaine with everything that was going on with Karofsky and with his Glee-mates. Blaine had honestly been more of a best friend to him recently then any of his so-called best friends/family in Glee. Until that phone call of course, but, much as he hated it, Kurt understood where Blaine and the Warblers were coming from.

New Directions were certainly not the only, nor even the first, Glee club Vocal Adrenaline had messed with.

There was an angry huff from the armchair, and the smile on Kurt's face faded slightly.

"What?" he asked the jock tiredly.

Karofsky sighed, standing and walking heavily over to join Kurt on the couch. Kurt tucked his knees to his chest to make room and looked down quietly.

"I'm just trying to look out for you," David said after a long moment.

Kurt frowned down at his knees.

"How so?"

"I-…I don't really know," Karofsky offered weakly. "But you have to understand- you're- Crap. How do I say this? I don't mean to hurt you or anything, it's just, God, Kurt, you're so frustrating. It's like you're determined to not live in the real world, here. And you've always been like that, like when Puckerman and the other guys on football dumpstered you every morning, or with the slushies or when we locked you in the closet for the entire school day in your freshman year.

You always act like you're so superior and so special…and you're not! You're going to have to get that someday. Kids like us from small towns in Ohio? They don't become stars! And it drives every normal person in this school crazy to see you and that Berry freak, because you just don't seem to know your fucking place!"

Kurt swallowed convulsively, leaning slightly forward to rest his head on his knees, still facing away from the jock beside him.

"I know," he said finally, voice strangled. "That it's a long shot. Becoming a successful star or even just being someone _important_ in this world, but…if I don't have my dreams, then I've got nothing. The only way I keep myself moving in this town, and in this life, is by believing I'll be more. I _have_ to be. There has to be a point where I'll be great someday, so that this all can be worth it. If it doesn't get better, and if I don't get to at least try to be the star I know that I am…or at least could be…then there's no point to anything…"

"Kurt," Dave sighed. "I really am sorry to say this, but you can't do that. Honestly? You probably will get out of Lima, but it seems to me that that's the most you'll do. You're different enough to get out, sure, but that's it. You're just going to crash and burn, and I'm trying to help you realize that before it's too late. You're not actually all that special."

A tear escaped down Kurt's cheek.

"I have to be," he said, voice quiet but firm, and slightly desperate.

Dave groaned. "Can you please just stop deluding yourself already? Look, our arrangement is still in effect, and that's something right?"

Kurt turned angrily towards him, eyes glinting.

"Excuse me, but I didn't want this arrangement in the first place! You've practically forced me into it."

"Not this again," Dave sneered. "You did want it. You're just too fucking caught up in your pathetic fantasies of love and romance. Face it, Kurt, this thing with me? It's all the romance a kid like you could get in Lima, Ohio. Screwing around in janitor's closets and at your place when there's no-one else home is probably the most you could hope to get around here. And I thought you were supposed to be a guy, right? So, why the hell are you complaining when for the first time ever you're actually getting off on a pretty regular basis?"

Crimson swam across Kurt's porcelain cheeks, and engulfed the tips of his pale ears.

"I am a guy, but-… I like romance, okay? Like Broadway, where every touch is this incredible connection of love and…I don't want to be run by my hormones like those disgusting American Pie kids."

David laughed at that, unable to stop himself from reaching out and stroking a hand over Kurt's hair, steadfastly ignoring the younger's flinch.

"I'm surprised you've seen that movie. But, see, there you go. You're exactly like some chick."

"I watched the very beginning out of curiosity, but it was a mistake I quickly rectified, and, for that last time, I am not a girl," Kurt retorted angrily.

"Yes you are. That's why I like you, I figure. It's just cause you look and act like a girl."

Kurt pulled away from him, reaching up to massage his temples.

"I understand that you're confused," he intoned wearily. "But I'm a guy, and if you're attracted to me, then you're attracted to a guy. I may be more…androgynous in my looks then the mainstream, but I'm still very much male, as you well know."

"Still-"

"No, David. That's not how this works."

"Shut up," David hissed.

Kurt sighed.

"Okay," he murmured. "I…I have a proposal."

"What?" Karofsky's brow crinkled.

"A proposal? If we're going to keep…doing this thing with us, I think we need a few…rules. I mean, I agreed to your arrangement, even though I didn't want to. You got your way. And I think if we could just make this as painless as possible it would be better for both of us…"

Karofsky pulled away a bit, frowning.

"You don't get to call the shots here, Hummel. How many times do I have to say it?"

Kurt closed his eyes and swallowed again, licking his dry lips.

"I understand how being effectively blackmailed works," he said quietly. "I'm just saying that there are some things we might want to set straight or not discuss, just to avoid making things harder than they need to be."

Dave scratched at his elbow thoughtfully, finally allowing a: "You might have a point."

Kurt exhaled the breath he'd been unknowingly holding in a whoosh of pure relief, some of the tension he always felt around Karofsky, in particular since the death threat and subsequent suggestion of their current arrangement, draining away.

"But then, what do you want?"

Kurt's first instinct was to say that he wanted to not have to deal with Dave at all anymore, or not to be being blackmailed into sexual relations he didn't feel ready to have with someone he actually liked/loved, let alone the bully before him, but held his tongue. He'd already exploded too many times tonight, and if he did one more time Karofsky would be liable to kill him, or at least stop considering Kurt's feelings at all.

"…Stop calling me a girl," he settled on at length. "Or comparing me to one. Please."

Karofsky narrowed his eyes.

"I'm just telling the truth. Even the other guys in your stupid homo-explosion agree, right?"

Kurt bit his lip.

That was indeed true. And Kurt hated it, but there was practically nothing he could do in that scenario. He'd already pushed the guys in Glee past their old limits, so he looked at their attitudes as something of a long-term project; they were improving, already miles better than they used to be, and step by step Kurt figured they would continue to do so. The situation with Karofsky, on the other hand, was very different and, for Kurt, the attitude felt dangerous.

If David convinced himself he was attracted to Kurt because he was feminine, there was a possibility that he could well and truly blow up when he realized otherwise. Karofsky was simply too unpredictable, and if he were to, say, see Kurt fixing a car in the garage, something typically seen as a more masculine activity, and was still attracted to him, there was no telling what Dave was liable to do.

The possible consequences of allowing Dave's denial and homophobia to continue to fester between them were terrifying.

"I'd just really appreciate if you would stop," he responded lowly. "I may be more effeminate than most, and I tend to get along better with girls, but that does not make me one. I was born male, and I identify as male."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll try," Dave shrugged. "But only if you stop saying shit about me being gay."

Kurt opened his mouth to attempt a retort, but Karofsky shook his head.

"No. I don't know for sure _what_ I am yet, okay? So, just, cut it out with the homo crap. And no more saying shit about me not being brave or having balls, got it?"

Kurt sighed softly.

"Is that all?"

Dave's jaw clenched for a moment as he thought, then relaxed as he shook his head in the negative.

Kurt nodded. "Fine then."

There was a moment of awkwardness, and then Karofsky stood up and left the house without another word. Kurt stared at the door for a minute after it closed, and then curled in on himself, tugging his mom's old afghan up from beneath the couch and yawning as he lay down. Kurt had found that he was always exhausted after Dave came over. He glanced at the time and was glad to note that it was early enough for him to be able to squeeze in a short nap before he needed to be at the shop. He grabbed the remote, turning on some cheesy movie on AMC, and swiftly fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Rachel grinned to herself as the bell rang, gathering her books. It was eighth period now, which meant time for Glee, and for her to blow everyone away just before the voting. She had rehearsed her song during lunch with Mike and Tina dancing and doing the background harmonies, and it had been absolutely amazing.

She strode determinedly towards class, excitement lighting up her face, and soon took her front row seat in the choir room, unable to contain a prime Rachel Berry grinsmirk hybrid from gracing her face.

Once everyone was assembled, Mr. Schuster went to go to the board, beginning to write the word sectionals in his usual all-caps enthusiasm-riddled scrawl, and Rachel took the opportunity to stand and go to the front of the room.

"Excuse me, Mr. Schuster, but before we do our vote, I'd like to say something."

There were a few scattered groans, in particular from Santana, that Rachel promptly ignored.

"I won't take too long," she told her teacher, smiling brilliantly.

Mr. Schue sighed, then nodded reluctantly to her. "Go ahead, Rachel. You've got the floor."

She positively beamed.

"Thank you. Tina, Mike, if you will?"

Tina and Mike stood together and joined Rachel at the front, each wearing tap shoes and looking distinctly uncomfortable as they avoided their teacher's eyes.

"What?" Mr. Schuster asked, looking alarmed and beginning to stand.

"You'll see," Rachel told him happily.

"Rachel-"

But Rachel gestured to the band, and to Brad, and the beginning music to the song "Anything Goes", from the Broadway production of the same name stirred to life over him. He scowled, but sat back on his stool, arms sidling across his chest.

Rachel took a moment to inhale through her nose and get into her character, picturing Patti LuPone's performance in her head, then turned to grin slyly at her audience and began to sing.

" _Times have changed,_ _  
_ _And we've often rewound the clock,_ _  
_ _Since the Puritans got a shock,_ _  
_ _When they landed on Plymouth Rock._ _  
_ _If today,_ _Any shock they should try to stem,_ _  
_ _'Stead of landing on Plymouth Rock,_ _  
_ _Plymouth Rock would land on them._

Rachel smirked at her audience, then, just in time, fell back into a chair as Mike Chang brought it forward, perching herself with legs diagonally crossed and, as her idol had done in her incredible performance for the 1987 revival, began to slowly tease her long skirt upwards.

_In olden days a glimpse of stocking_ _  
_ _Was looked on as something shocking,_ _  
_ _But now, God knows,_ _  
_ _Anything Goes._

Rachel snapped to her feet, going behind the chair and pushing it aside and shaking her head at her classmates.

_Good authors too who once knew better words,_ _  
_ _Now only use four letter words_ _  
_ _Writing prose, Anything Goes._

She approached the first row, leaning in close to Artie as she began and steadily moving around through the class, chanting the lyrics as if confiding a secret.

_The world has gone mad today_ _  
_ _And good's bad today,_ _  
_ _And black's white today,_ _  
_ _And day's night today,_ _  
_ _When most guys today_ _  
_ _That women prize today_ _  
_ _Are just silly gigolos!_

_And though I'm not a great romancer_ _  
_ _I know that I'm bound to answer_ _  
_ _When you propose,_ _  
_ _Anything goes_ _  
_ _When grandmama whose age is eighty_ _  
_ _In night clubs is getting matey with gigolo's,_ _  
_ _Anything Goes._

_When mothers pack and leave poor father_ _  
_ _Because they decide they'd rather be tennis pros,_ _  
_ _Anything Goes._ _  
_

_If driving fast cars you like,_ _  
_ _If low bars you like,_ _  
_ _If old hymns you like,_ _  
_ _If bare limbs you like,_ _  
_ _If Mae West you like_ _  
_ _Or me undressed you like,_ _  
_ _Why, nobody will oppose!_

_When every night,_

_The set that's smart_ _  
_ _Is intruding in nudist parties in studios,_ _  
_ _Anything Goes._

Rachel joined Mike and Tina in tap-dancing, swinging her arms wildly, utterly in her element, then stilled to sweep back toward her peers as the chorus kicked back in, Mike and Tina joining to back her at all the key points.

_The world has gone mad today_ _  
_ _And good's bad today,_ _  
_ _And black's white today,_ _  
_ _And day's night today,_ _  
_ _When most guys today_ _  
_ _That women prize today_ _  
_ _Are just silly gigolos_ _  
_ _And though I'm not a great romancer_ _  
_ _I know that I'm bound to answer_ _  
_ _When you propose,_ _  
_ _Anything goes_

_If saying your prayers you like,_ _  
_ _If green pears you like_ _  
_ _If old chairs you like,_ _  
_ _If back stairs you like,_ _  
_ _If love affairs you like_ _  
_ _With young bears you like,_ _  
_ _Why nobody will oppose!_

_And though I'm not a great romancer_ _  
_ _And though I'm not a great romancer_ _  
_ _I know that I'm bound to answer_ _  
_ _When you propose,_ _  
_ _Anything goes..._ _  
_ _Anything goes!"_

Rachel's chest heaved as she finished off with a long belting note and waited for the eruption of applause, surprised when the sound of a mere ten people clapping met her ears instead, reality yanking her back into its stronghold.

Still, her classmates looked impressed enough, she supposed. Kind of.

"Rachel."

She turned to Mr. Schue, finding herself even more astounded when he looked at her with not the incredible awe she'd expected, but what seemed to be...anger…

"Go sit down," he directed her sharply, standing up. "Now."

She gaped at him.

"You've got to be kidding me, Mr. Schue…? My performance was amazing."

"It was," he agreed, still sounding surprisingly hostile. "Now go sit down, right now."

Rachel's nostrils flared, but she did as she was told, Tina and Mike having retreated immediately following the number.

"Honestly, Rachel," Schuster began sharply. "I'm tempted to remove you from the competition altogether after that stunt you just pulled. I told you already, this sectionals you are not going to get a solo. It's time students we have never before highlighted got their chance to shine. We are lucky enough to be a club absolutely brimming with talent, and I am not going to overlook that anymore.

I want you to remember guys- every one of you- I am in charge here, and it is not okay to just ignore my rules and do entirely your own thing. We have more than the required amount for competition, so here's your warning- If you are insubordinate or disrespectful, I will not allow you to compete. I don't want to have to do that guys, but I've had it with the attitude around here. It's about time you guys started supporting each other and working as a team.

Now, I made my decision, and I've chosen Santana to perform her song Valerie at sectionals."

"Yes," Santana exclaimed, then directing a snide, "In your face gremlin," at Rachel, who scowled furiously at the floor.

"And," Schue continued loudly, "Brittany and Mike will be performing a dance number along with it."

"What about the ballad?" Rachel asked furiously.

"I was thinking that that should go to the winners of our Duets competition."

Quinn and Sam grinned at each other, and Rachel groaned.

"Ken and Barbie? Are you kidding me? Mr. Schue, no offense to anyone, but they don't have even half enough power for-"

"Rachel," Mr. Schuster said dangerously. "Stop now or you will not compete at all."

Rachel glowered, but made a show of pursing her lips and "locking them".

"That doesn't just go for Rachel," Mr. Schue added. "Every one of you needs a major attitude adjustment. Now, we have a week to prepare for sectionals, so let's start working. Come on! Everyone up!"

* * *

"You ready, Dude?"

Finn nodded sharply, glancing around the rapidly-emptying field.

"Definitely. Let's do this."

Puck smirked, and both boys straightened, heading for the locker room, and for Karofsky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credit(s):  
> Rachel-- "Anything Goes" from the musical Anything Goes.


	12. Boil pt.1

_"It_ _has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.”_

_\---Chaos Theory_

…

 ___"There’s a ripple effectin all that we do. What you do touches me; what I do touches you.”_

 **_\---_ ** _Anonymous_

_~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~_

David Karofsky was in the shower at school, completely absorbed in the water pounding down on him, and not at all thinking about Kurt Hummel's ass.

Really.

Well, maybe a little, to be honest. But it wasn't like it was his fault or anything; It was Hummel's.

Hummel with his tight [red skinny jeans](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/12/Vibrato) and dance moves, shaking his goddamn hips…

Images spun in the dark of his tightly clenched eyes, and he issued a soft groan, entire body tightening with lust, and then a surge of hate.

He was just frustrated, of course. Kurt had told him that Hudson and Puck were coming back before he'd left the evening before, which meant no alone time tonight. Of course, at the time he'd just figured he could drag Kurt into a few janitor's closets or some shit, but that plan had been killed today. Apparently, Kurt still had it in his head that he could do whatever he wanted, and that he didn't want to be with Dave, and Dave was starting to wonder why he bothered with the little bitch, but that ass just kept popping up in his head, moving along with the beat of a high-pitched voice dragged low with wanton lust, or anger, or exertion, and, well, despite himself, Dave couldn't help but think it was a damn good answer.

The jock ground his teeth, tongue tracing over their backs, and worked to focus on the unrelenting press of water coming down on him, lifting his face further, tilting it slightly back so that the water drilled into his now open eyes, making them drip as well of their own accord, pain filtering into his senses.

He heard Z in the background, calling out a "see you later" to him, the door to the locker-room slamming shut in his friend's wake, and clenched and unclenched his fists against his thighs twice, digging the knuckles into his flesh, shame creeping in to join with the rest of the emotions churning in his gut.

If Z could hear the things he kept thinking, or see the images contorting hotly in his mind, his best friend would probably hate him. He'd compare Dave to Hummel, call him a _faggot._

It'd be even worse, he knew, if Z were to find out about his and Kurt's arrangement…

Dave knew he spent too much of his time lately thinking about how his friends and family would react if they knew the truth about _everything_ , but he couldn't help it. _They wouldn't understand_ , Dave thought again, the reminder bitter in his head. _They wouldn't_. He wasn't like Hummel, and these _urges_ he'd had lately… they weren't his fault; they were Kurt's.

Unfortunately, Dave knew his Dad wouldn't buy that, and probably neither would Z.

If the truth ever got out…Dave swallowed and reached forward blindly to turn off the faucet, blinking the water from his eyes.

He just had to make sure that that didn't happen.

He didn't think Hummel was too much of a problem, but he felt like there was someone he was forgetting…

Dave wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped from the stall, turning the corner and immediately slamming into a hard chest.

"Karofsky," Puck practically rumbled. "We need to talk."

"We've got nothing to talk about," Dave scoffed, shoving past his teammate and going to his locker, pulling out his clothes and throwing them haphazardly to the floor.

"Oh, I think we do," he heard Finn say loudly from behind him.

Dave tensed, jerkily beginning to pull on his jeans as his thoughts began going at a million miles a minute, and his breath quietly hitched.

"That right?" he asked harshly, the words sounding oddly empty in his ears.

"We know what you're doing to Kurt," Puck said loudly, and first, _holy shit_ he was a hell of a lot closer than Dave had thought, and, second: _**fuck. no.**_

Numbly, he pulled his shirt over his head, then slipped on his prized jacket.

"You need to leave my brother alone, man." Finn's voice was harder than Dave had ever heard it, and as he straightened, he subconsciously pulled himself taut as a bow, fingers flexing in the pockets of his letterman.

"I haven't touched his fairy ass, so don't worry," he sneered.

Abruptly both Hudson and Puckerman came at him, launching themselves forward and dragging all three of them to the concrete of the locker room's floor.

"What the fuck?" he asked furiously, jerking against the grip of their strong hands holding him down.

"Kurt came home last week with a bunch of bruises," Finn said angrily, and David exhaled deeply, his entire body relaxing for a split second as he thanked God that that was all, but then he remembered his position and tensed once more, struggling loose of his teammates' newly slackened hold.

"So?" he asked irritably as he pulled free and began rubbing at his arms, not bothering to stand.

"I know you did it," Finn growled, and Dave frowned.

"Oh, yeah? How do you know that? Fag tell you? If he did, he's lying."

Dave's stomach roiled a bit as he spoke, guilt making itself known, but he pushed it down. He had no reason to feel bad. Hell, Puck and Finn had both called Kurt a fag in the past. And they'd pushed him around, too, so it wasn't like either of them really had much room to talk, anyway.

"He didn't need to say anything," Puck snapped, and Dave rolled his eyes.

"Oh, just give it a rest," he jeered back at them.

"We've all seen how you've been picking on him," Puck replied darkly.

"Big deal," Dave scoffed. "Everyone does that. Hell. _You've_ done that."

"You've been doing it more than _anyone_ else, though," Finn exclaimed.

David groaned, pulling himself up.

"I'm out of here," he told them.

"No you're not," Finn roared back.

Dave was slammed forward into a locker, and cried out, jerking himself around and shoving back at Finn, sending the clumsier boy back into the bench, which he stumbled over, nearly falling. Puck surged forward, fist stretching out and careening into the air for a long second before it crashed into Dave's jaw.

Seeing red, he surged forward just the same, arms coming up and grabbing Puck's limbs firmly, swinging them both around, and then slamming his teammate back against the row of lockers behind them.

Puck's eyes were narrowed as they went head to head, and then he was suddenly talking, voice brimming with anger and disgust.

"It's more with you man. It's different from how everyone else at this school is with him, and you know it. It's like it's personal or some shit. _You act like you're obsessed_. So, what the fuck is it, man?"

Sometime when Puck had been delivering his monologue (probably at the sound of the word _personal_ , and _definitely_ with the pronunciation of that word- _**obsessed**_ ) Dave's entire body had fallen slack with shock, with horror, with…

Puck used his temporary state to shove him back down, and Dave felt Finn behind him.

"Seriously, man. What the fuck is your problem? Do you have some sort of weird crush on my boy or some shit? _Are you confused?_ "

Dave reared back to his feet, hurling himself at Puck and sending the other boy hurtling backwards.

"I'm not a fucking homo," he bellowed. "I'm not a freak, like Hummel or the rest of you fucking Homo-Explosion fags! I'm _not_ like that!"

"Then lay off," Puck snarled. "Or I will destroy you, Karofsky. That's a fucking promise."

"We'll go to Ben-Israel," Finn said quietly from beside him, and Dave's gaze slowly shifted to the gawky teen. He'd just about forgotten Hudson was even there. "You know if we even hinted you might have developed some psycho thing for Kurt, no matter how untrue that is, he'd find some way to put that out there and get people talking. It's your choice, man. Either way, you need to leave my brother alone."

David fumbled for a moment mentally. He didn't want to lose his deal with Kurt, it was the best thing he had right now, but he also couldn't let Puck even think about spreading any rumors.

"You do that," he said finally, forcing amusement, "it will only make all the guys on the team want to kick his ass."

"Yeah," Puck agreed. "But they'll also want to kick yours, just in case it's true. And who do you think we'll be protecting when that happens?"

David narrowed his eyes at the pair.

"You can't be with the fag all the time," he said, the words half threat, half warning.

"Just keep away from him, alright, Karofsky?" Hudson scowled.

"If you don't," Puck added, taking a step closer to Dave, who in turn only straightened, refusing to back down. "I will kick your ass, and then I will go to Israel, and I will tell him all sorts of shit. I'm talking bad shit, stuff that will take you from where you are now on the social ladder, and put you miles behind even the worst of the Gleeks. Hummel and Berry will be seen as fucking Homecoming King and Queen next to you. Got it?"

Dave clenched his fists, but nodded anyways, watching as they nodded and walked out of the locker room without another word.

As the door shut behind them with a bang, Dave finally let go, and, with a scream of rage, reeled back his fist and sent it crashing into a nearby locker.

* * *

Kurt stuck out his tongue slightly in concentration as he measured the span between the current edge of a patch of cloth, and where he needed to bring it in to, then carefully eased a pin he'd had in his mouth between two fingers and into the material.

He released a breath as he examined his work for a moment, then smirked and once more began to track a separate piece through the sewing machine, glancing up from time to time to glance over the pictures he'd printed out of the Prada garb he was working to imitate.

The door to his basement was slammed open, and he flinched, hissing as he managed to stick himself on a separate sewing needle he'd put up in the stand he had for necessary materials on any given project. Kurt winced, pulling the metal from his palm, grateful that it had only barely punctured his skin, and spun in his seat to fix a glower on Puckerman and his step-brother.

"You _had_ to slam the door," he grumbled. "I was trying to get some work done on my newest ensem. Do you two Neandrathals understand the concentration these things take?"

Finn simply stared at him, while Puck groaned loudly, collapsing on the couch across the way.

"You're welcome, princess," he groused.

Kurt frowned at the pair, carefully setting his materials aside, officially abandoning his work for the moment in favor of focusing on the two boys in his company.

"And what exactly am I welcome for?" he queried wearily.

"We took care of Karofsky," Finn grinned at him, plopping down on his bed.

Kurt's eyes narrowed to slits.

"What," he said carefully, voice low, "do you mean by 'took care of him'?"

"It doesn't matter," Puck shrugged from the couch. Kurt's gaze swerved once more, back to the Jewish boy. "But he should leave you alone from now on. Mostly. He might talk a bit more shit than before, but I doubt," Puck allowed with a snicker, "that he'll want to lay a single hand on you after what we said."

Kurt's breath caught a bit, and his tounge pressed into the lower swell of his cheek, jaw contorting with exasperation and anger.

"Just what did you say to him?"

Puck just smirked.

Kurt turned back to his step-brother.

"Finn?" he asked, voice rising. "What did you guys say?"

Finn shrugged.

"We just told him to leave you alone and stuff," he shrugged. "Puck and I got some good hits in too," he looked proud. "The best part was when Puck started talking about Israel."

"Israel?" Kurt asked slowly, a look of disconcertion tugging down his brows.

"Oh for fuck's sake. I'll just give you the lowdown," Puck sighed. "Though I don't get why you really need to know…"

Kurt's face smoothed over, and a single brow arched up in question.

"Go on," he pronounced cooly.

"Your song the other day in Glee," Puck began, sounding bored and stretching out on the couch with his hands crossing behind his neck so that he was more talking to the ceiling than either of the two boys in the room with him.

"Finn was worried about it, or whatever, and he was telling me, and we figured we needed to do something to make Karofsky back off, so after practice we cornered him. Told him he needed to lay off you, that we knew what he'd done to you-"

"You what?" Kurt interrupted, sounding horrified. "Puck! What did you tell him exactly?"

Puck rolled his eyes at the feeling, and Kurt crooked his jaw even further to the side.

"It was nothing! We just told him we knew he beat you up last week."

"And we threatened him," Finn tacked on helpfully.

Kurt cocked his jaw, mouth open slightly, and tongued one of his teeth irritably.

"How," he asked finally, addressing Finn once more, "did you threaten him then?"

"We may have implied that he had some gay crush on you," Puck said nonchalantly from across the room.

"And that we'd go to Jacob Ben Israel and tell him all about it if he hurt you again. And kick his ass," Finn volunteered.

He and Puck exchanged air fives, as Kurt sputtered indignantly, horror descending on him.

"You idiots," he finally managed to get out, voice oddly choked and several octaves higher than usual.

"Hey! We were helping you," Puck exclaimed, outraged.

"Yeah, Kurt," Finn called out, looking more hurt than anything else. "You're my brother now. I had to stand up for you…Besides, you shoulda seen Karofsky's face. He looked so- Hey, hey, are you okay?"

Kurt didn't know. Maybe he wasn't. He couldn't be sure. All he knew was that he was so _angry_ , and _scared_ , and he couldn't seem to think straight, or get enough air. His throat kept tightening, and there was this weird buzzing in his ears. His vision was fuzzy and white around the edges, and everything seemed oddly dreamlike, except less like a dream and more like a _nightmare_. He lifted a hand to his closing throat, scrabbling at it a bit as he worked to drag in another breath. In his mind's eye, his encounters with Dave in the lockerroom and the janitors' closets waltzed loudly in a circle. He felt transported back in a strange way, as if those hands were on him all over again, and he heard the echo of Dave's voice in his ear.

_"Maybe you are a girl. Is that it, Hummel? How about I check?"_

" _-You're making this so much harder than it has to be-"_

" _-And then I'll just kill you-"_

_"Don't push me Hummel!"_

"Hummel," he heard as if from a distance. "What's going on?"

"Kurt?"

" _-And then I'll just kill you-"_

"He's going to seriously hurt himself, get his arm!"

No.

NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNonNo _Nonononononononono_

A hand clamped onto his wrist, and a mangled scream tore from Kurt's throat.

He didn't understand why he was freaking out…He was just so scared.

The hand was back, and some part of him knew it was just Finn, and maybe Puck, but all he could see was David, who was probably so mad right now with Kurt. Who maybe had decided everything was more trouble than it was worth, and might decide to just go ahead and kill Kurt now and get it over with.

Might just kill Kurt…

_The jock's hand on him tightened, a thumb sliding over his head_

" _If you tell anyone-"_

_"You want me and you need me-"_

" _-_ _ **I'll kill you.**_ _"_

_His own voice, confident and assuring, "Love is just around the corner." A wink._

_Love is just around the corner._

Because, he wanted it, maybe?

Like Dave always said.

His throat was burning, tears brimming in his eyes, tremors gripping him as he rocked back on his heels, from a position on the floor he didn't even know how he'd gotten into, nails scratching uselessly over the tight plane of his neck, the bursting hollow of his clavicle.

_"I told you. You wanted it."_

_His own cum smeared on the inside of his Dolce and Gabana jacket._

"Calm down, Hummel, come on. Breathe, Kurt! Finn, just call 911 or something!"

No, no. They couldn't do that.

He had to calm…He had to calm down.

If they called an ambulance, they would have to go to a hospital, and then his Dad would know…

He felt like he was dying.

_He might as well be._

If Dave was angry enough, anything was possible, and Kurt knew from experience….

Right, no, calming down…

He worked to settle himself down, squeezing his eyes shut, and reaching out blindly, shuddering when his fingers touched on warm flesh, but forcing himself to focus on the feel.

Softer than Dave's.

Not Dave.

He was fine. He was fine.

"It's fine," he heard himself mutter weakly.

He was still trembling, and Dave was still leering at him behind his eyelids, but reality was starting to come clearer now, and Kurt anchored himself as best he could, willing himself to calm.

He was touching Finn, not Dave. He was not in a janitor's closet, or empty hallway, or boy's lockerroom, but his own basement, with Finn and Puck.

And he needed to calm down.

"Give him a minute," he heard Finn say loudly. "Kurt, come on man. You're scaring me, man. And Puck. And we, like, watch Saw. We're not the easiest to scare. Come on…"

Kurt took a shuddering breath, and felt the iron on his lungs loosen up, slowly beginning to crumble into nonexistence.

Minutes whittled away, and, finally, he could whisper, and he did exactly that, breathing quietly that _**no, he did not know what had just happened, but he hadn't been getting much sleep**_ and _**he was exhausted and he'd actually been testing a new vitamin into his regimen over the past few days (**_ _Lie_ _ **) , so maybe that was why whatever this had been had happened, and thanks for helping and everything, but he was really just tired and maybe he just needed a nap. No, he was not mad at either of them, just tired and irritable, and they could wake him up in a few hours and he'd be fine and he'd make them dinner and everything would be fine and they could go upstairs now, because he really just wanted to lay down and revel in solitudesilencequiet (not having to keep up this mask).**_ Everything was fine. _Absolutely under control._

The boys retreated, looking wary but scared enough that they went along with it, and Kurt went to his bed, curling up in a tight ball.

He didn't know who he was kidding anymore.

He wasn't okay. And he knew it was obvious.

Kurt didn't understand what was wrong with him, but he knew he was scared.

Not just of Dave anymore, but of what he was feeling himself turn into, and of the powerlessness that just seemed to absorb him all the time. Kurt kept trying to play his cards and do things on his own terms, even the things that weren't really on his own terms, but that feeling of having no real control was still there and it terrified him to his core.

Especially when it came to Dave. The older boy was powerful in a way, and unpredictable, and Kurt constantly felt off kilter around him.

He didn't know what to do anymore.

And if that weren't enough, there was one other thing terrifying him, perhaps more so than anything else.

When Finn and Puck had been telling him what they had done to Dave, he hadn't actually only been scared for himself…

Kurt understood how hard it could be, coming out and coming to terms with yourself, coming to terms with the fact that you were different from the norm in a way that was more beyond your control than virtually any other part of yourself. You could change your clothing style, or adapt to liking things you didn't think you would, or you could feign interest in a subject and force yourself. But with attraction, no matter how hard you worked to only like the sex you should, nature would win. Your body would take over, and that was that.

In some ways, Dave was fortunate. His interests and entire persona were so much more mainstream. He could fit in.

Kurt had always been different from the norm, and stuck out like a sore thumb.

However, Dave was also homophobic, and wanted nothing more than to be like everyone else. And now he was really realizing that there was a part of him that could _never_ be that way.

Somehow, despite everything, Kurt was…concerned. He felt _bad_ for David. He hated the other boy, and the things he had done, but Kurt also knew where they came from, and as much as he wished that it wouldn't matter to him because he knew, he knew, how dangerous the emotion could prove for himself, it did. And he couldn't seem to help the anxiety gnawing at his gut on behalf of the jock.

He was so sick, twisted. _Fucked up, just like Dave had said_.

A part of Kurt was glad, though, for all the emotions crowding his brain, the more powerful of which were thankfully distracting from slightly smaller but no less uncomfortable sensations, like that of humiliation at his weakness in front of the guys pooling a molten weight in his abdomen, or the spinning dizziness that still lingered around the edges of his vision.

He pulled his exhaustion over him, and burrowed his head into his pillow, working to fall asleep.

As he descended at last, one hand wormed down and wrapped around the warm metal of his cell phone in his pocket, tugging it out and bringing it up to rest next to his head.

He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he would surely be calling Dave sometime soon. That he would, against his will, want to make sure the jock was going to do nothing drastic, or at least find out whether or not David was angry with him (Kurt was leaning towards a "definitely" on that one, though he really couldn't be sure with Dave).

He didn't understand why he cared. He knew he should hate Dave, and he did, but for some reason he also pitied him, and wanted to be able to help him.

Kurt was _so_ confused, but, he decided, that was fine for now, because he was also tired, and the boys upstairs were expecting him to be asleep and, well, he'd hate to disappoint.

* * *

_Ding-Dong_

Rachel eyed the door for a moment, then reached forward to press her fingers swiftly twice more to the doorbell.

"Alright, Berry, enough!"

She frowned at Puck.

"Why are you answering the door? Where's Finn?"

Puck sighed, shutting the door behind her as she shoved in.

"He's trying to erase the browser history on his computer before we use it."

Rachel nodded, setting aside her coat and moving into the kitchen to set her bag on the table.

"Kurt's still asleep?" she asked tentatively.

Puck nodded, his bored expression gaining an edge.

"You said you could probably figure out what was wrong with him?" he asked, brow wrinkling slightly.

Rachel nodded, unable to restain a smile.

"Yes, Noah…It's so funny."

"What is?" he asked lowly.

"This," Rachel said shortly. "Last year you hated both me and Kurt. You were throwing Kurt into the dumpsters almost every morning and slushying and locker checking him, and you were slushying me twice a day sometimes. And now, you actually care."

Puck's eyes narrowed.

"I'm not a pussy," he said defensively.

Rachel wrinkled her nose.

"No. You're just as…crude…as you've ever been, Puck."

He nodded sharply, flexing at her.

"You've seen my guns," he tossed out. "I'm the studliest of the studs. I'm awesome. You and Kurt…Hummel, I mean, are just my teammates, and you don't mess with teammates. It's the code, man. It's like not ratting a bro out, or giving a friend your weed half-off when they're down or some shit. …Besides, you're my ex, and you're Finn's girlfriend. So, as annoying as you can be, you're off limits."

Rachel nodded in understanding.

"There's supposed to be a similar code among girls, but I've never paid it too much attention. Such things simply can't be strictly adhered to on the road to stardom, sadly."

Finn meandered into the room, holding a laptop in his hands, large forehead wrinkled and eyes latched onto the screen. Rachel stood quickly and grabbed his upper arm just in time to prevent him from running into a chair.

"I'll take it," she sighed, taking the machine from her bofriend's arms and setting it on the table, then flouncing back to him and standing on her tip toes to kiss him.

He smiled and wrapped his arms around her waist, bending as well to deepen the kiss, as well as make it more comfortable.

Puck groaned and grabbed the laptop, sliding it over so that it was in front of him.

"Dude…" he said slowly. "You actually go on these stupid 'revenge on ex-girlfriend' sites? You do realize their total rip-offs for pictures that aren't actually that hot. Man, I thought I taught you better than that."

Finn reddened, and Rachel laughed, casting her boyfriend an amused look.

"Even I knew that," she chirped.

Finn groaned, throwing himself into the chair next to Puck, Rachel sliding into one across from him, then frowned slightly, and finally brightened.

"Wait! You look at porn?"

Rachel blushed.

"On occasion," she allowed. "For educational purposes only."

Puck snorted and she shot a glare at him.

"Anyway," Rachel exclaimed. "We have much more important matters at hand. Without a solo to practice for since Mr. Schue decided to play the 'everyone's special' and 'all that's important is that you've tried your best' game with our competition, I have been in dire need of a project to combat the gloom of contemplating our imminent mediocre set list. Unfotunately, all the volunteer-projects I've contacted with offers of my service and brilliant ideas have apparently been filled, or unable to work with my schedule for some reason. However, good for you, this leaves me absolutely free to help out with your Kurt-situation. Now, Noah, computer please."

Puck simply looked at her, and she narrowed her eyes at his apparent refusal to cooperate.

"You know, Noah, I-"

Puck groaned loudly, shoving the computer across the table at her with an annoyed, "Take it, fine, I don't care. Just stop talking."

Rachel made a sound of triumph and took the computer.

"Alright, so Finn, Puck, if we could go party line on speaker with the rest of the club?"

Puck pulled out his cell phone, motioning to Finn that he had things covered, and quickly sent a mass text informing Mike, Sam, Mercedes, Tina, Artie, Quinn, Santana, and Brittany that they needed to do a party line, and do the usual formation of tapping in. He considered including Kate, but decided not to. She was simply too new at the moment.

That and Rachel apparently hated her now, and they needed her focused on Kurt, not the threat to her performing status.

He then dialed Artie.

"Hey dawg," Artie answered after the second ring. "Why are we going party, and why aren't we including Kurt, Finn, and Rachel…Hold on, Brittany's calling in….Hey, Britt. You're on with Partie."

"Hi Artie. Hi Puck," Brittany said cheerily. "Santana says she'll listen from over here once she comes back from washing her mouth out."

They heard Santana call something out in the background, and Puck smirked, obviously picturing the two girls fooling around.

"Oh, and Sam's calling in," Britt informed them a moment later.

"Hey guys, SaTike here actually," Sam's voice informed the group. "So, what's- wait, hold on. Quinn's tapping in."

"How long is this going to take?" Quinn asked. "And, Sam, you're coming over soon aren't you? Are you guys almost done with whatever you're doing?"

"Don't worry, Quinn, I'm kicking him out of here soon," Tina reassured the girl from Sam's line. "I want some alone time with Mike before it's too late."

There was some laughing, and then a groan from Sam.

"World's most in love couple is making out again," he informed them. "The Tike affair is becoming too adorable for my eyes. Quinn, rescue me?"

"Only if you and I get a lot of work done on our duet tonight," Quinn said. Her voice was oddly clipped, while still sounding relatively fond. "Finally, Mercedes is tapping in. Hey, Mercy."

"Q," Mercedes replied. "Hey girl. Guys, what's going on? And why weren't we supposed to contact Kurt? If it's Finchel drama again, shouldn't he be included?"

"It's not Finchel drama," Rachel huffed loudly, and Puck laughed as everyone fell awkwardly silent.

"Oh…hi, Rachel," Tina said at last. "I…don't think any of us knew you were there. Um…"

"So, is it Furt drama again, then?" Mercedes asked. "If saquach called Kurt's stuff faggy again, I will-"

"Actually, I'm here too," Finn interrupted her. "And that wasn't my fault, Mercedes. We've covered it. I messed up and said the wrong thing, but it was Kurt's fault too. Besides that lamp was really…you know."

"No I don't," Mercedes told him, clearly annoyed. "And, you're lucky you got the chance to see a prime Kurt makeover, and live in it. I'd love to live with him."

"Me too," Tina giggled. "As amazing as Mike's abs are, no-one's ass is better than Kurt's, and living with him he'd probably change around you a lot…And he's willing to take us shopping for as long as we want. He'd be an awesome roommate."

"I'm so confused," Sam moaned.

"Goth-girl! You're more perverted than I thought! Me gusta, Katharine. Nice."

"Santana, I don't think that nickname's going to catch on. It's been half a year already since I tricked Figgins, if not more."

"Now, I'm confused," Finn said unhappily.

"It doesn't matter," Rachel sighed. "We're actually doing this because Kurt had a major freak out earlier today supposedly, and I thought it might be a good idea to make a list of anything any of us have noticed as being off about him."

"Why isn't the new girl on here too, then?" Mike asked.

Rachel scowled darkly at the phone.

"There is no need-"

"I didn't think we needed Berry throwing another hissy fit," Puck cut her off. "Hummel's freak out was enough for one day."

"What exactly happened?" Mercedes queried, sounding upset.

"Sounded like a panic attack to me, from the way they described it," Rachel replied. "I had one once the first time I got really bad laryngitis, and my therapist discussed them with me. Anyhow, it's already on the list. Now, can anybody think of anything? Mercedes, you spent some one on one time with Kurt recently, didn't you?"

"It's mostly what you said before the wedding, Rachel," Tina said at length. "Just, worse, somehow."

"What'd you say about Kurt before?" Artie wondered, frown plain in his voice. "All I heard was that you guys were worried about how focused Karofsky was on him."

"He's been losing weight," Rachel sighed. "In the bad way. It's even worse now than before."

"His hair's not as shiny, anymore," Brittany added, sounding sad. "And his skin's still soft, but not like a baby's. He seemed better when he was my baby boyfriend, and he wasn't even a happy dolphin, then."

"I'm so confused…" Sam repeated. "Kurt was Brittany's boyfriend?"

"We made out. It was super hot," Brittany said airily.

"But Kurt's gay…"

"He tried to be straight for a week last year though, DQ. Keep up," Santana quipped.

"You know that's alright," Sam hedged, "I don't think I even want to know."

"Okay," Rachel sighed. "So he's lost weight. His hair and skin isn't as well maintained as it usually is. What else?"

"He's sick too much," Puck shrugged. "I hear him throwing up all the time lately."

"He skipped dinner last time we were here, but I don't really know about the last few days," Finn said cautiously.

"And breakfast," Mercedes added. "When he and I hung out. Plus, he's usually in the auditorium during lunch lately."

"He's been baking more, though," Finn observed, looking confused.

"Kurt cooks and bakes more when he's stressed or something's wrong," Mercedes told him. "He's a stress-baker, but he usually won't touch what he makes. One of his weird things."

"He's lashing out all the time," Mike volunteered. "I heard Azimio Adams talking about him in the lockerroom the other day. He said something about Kurt being a bigger bitch than usual. His words not mine."

"I actually heard that too." Sam sounded concerned. "The guys were getting really pissed talking about it. They were saying they'd been laying off him because Karofsky was being so intense, but they're thinking of upping their game again to put him in his place or something."

"Dammit," Puck groaned, Finn joining in. "He's going to get himself in trouble if he keeps pulling this attitude crap."

"That's what I always say," Finn just sounded annoyed now. "If he'd just tone things down-"

"He doesn't need to tone things down," Mercedes said angrily.

"I'm with Mercedes," Rachel agreed. "What you're starting to do is called victim-blaming. Now, back to the matter at hand, please?"

"Fine," Finn grumbled. "He's been less Kurt-like lately. Like, when he was sick he kept not matching his clothes and stuff."

"He was probably just more focused on hiding those stupid bruises though," Puck countered.

"What bruises?" Artie was the one sounding pissed this time.

"Karofsky beat Kurt up or something last week," Finn told them. "I mean, he won't say it was Karofsky or anything, but still…"

"This is starting to sound really serious, you guys," Rachel said after a moment. "As in, tell the parents and an administrator and maybe go to the police, serious."

"Maybe," Quinn voiced, "we should just mind our own business, though. We've all got our own stuff, and Kurt's always been able to take it before. I'm sure he'll be fine in a few weeks. If he knew everyone was talking about his personal life and invading his privacy in this way, he'd be furious. I've been there. It might be better to just leave him alone."

"No," Rachel said passionately, "Kurt and I may not always get along or anything, but we understand each other. I _get_ him, and he's _always_ left alone. Always, guys. He might not like it, but Kurt needs us to interfere. I think the loneliness is actually the biggest problem for him, overall. He doesn't really have anyone like him at school, and I know what that's like.

"But it's even worse for him. Most people treat him like he's diseased or like he deserves pain or something, and he acts like he's used to it, but that sort of thing never stops hurting. Trust me. Remember, I have two gay dads. They've both talked about this sort of thing with me before, and I've seen the way stuff still affects them…and they're in their forties! Kurt's the youngest of all of us, and maybe that's the problem.

"Everything's become too much for him. I don't know what's pushing him over the edge or any of the exacts, but I do know that the last thing we need to do to Kurt is leave him alone…All these things we've been listing…they sound bad, guys. If anything happens to Kurt, and we didn't step in and help when we could? That's the sort of thing we'll regret for the rest of our lives."

There was a long silence, then Quinn sighed, and muttered her concession to Rachel's point.

Finally, Mercedes spoke up.

"I just keep thinking that Kurt's reminding me of the way he was last year when we were on Cheerios and trying to lose weight. He was obsessed with his goal, and he got meaner, and lashed out at me. Everyone else too, I think. What Coach Sylvester said got to him almost as much as what she said got to me."

"Why would she have anything to say to Kurt?" Artie asked, sounding confused. "He's been small for his age since we were kids. I should know."

"You knew Kurt when you were kids?" Sam asked.

"We met in kindergarten," Artie informed him. "We went to the same elementary school, along with Puck, Azimio, and Cooper on the hockey team, plus a few others floating around. Kurt and I almost always ended up in the same class. Back to my question, what would Sue have to say about Kurt's weight? He's smaller than most of the girls."

"Something about him having pear hips," Mercedes commented. "And you guys all know how Kurt is- He gets this one-track-mind about stuff and has trouble seeing beyond it. I love him, but boy's too damn stubborn for his own good."

"So…" Tina said slowly. "Taking all of this into account…are we talking about Kurt maybe having an eating disorder?"

Silence.

Rachel, Finn, and Puck simply stared at each other, the words hanging dangerously in the air.

After at least five minutes straight without a word spoken, Quinn finally broke through the lull-

"We can watch him for the next week. If we think he does have a-" she fumbled for a minute, trying to avoid saying the words before picking back up, "-a problem…we can do one of those intervention things. And Finn can talk to Kurt's dad and everything. But if we're wrong, I say we stop trying to pick up Kurt as some project or something, or drawing so much attention to him. He'd hate it if he knew we were talking about him like this, in the first place."

There was another silence, then everyone slowly began mubling their assent, then goodbyes.

Rachel ended the call for Puck, and they sat there for a long moment, the boys' gazes trained on the phone in the center of the kitchen table, Rachel's on the open document bearing the list they'd compiled. Once more, slowly, their eyes met.

"I really hope for all of our sakes, Berry," Puck said harshly, "that we're not making a big mistake trusting your call on this."

Rachel sighed.

"As much as I love drama," she pronounced with a studied frown, "this _is_ starting to feel like a bit much. Finn? What did you guys want me to make for dinner?"

* * *

Kurt awoke to a stern prodding at his shoulder and the smell of tomato soup filling his nostrils.

"Rachel?" he asked wearily, rubbing at his eyes.

God, he was so tired.

"What are you doing here?" he asked her.

She smiled.

"I've been at a total loss since Mr. Schue robbed me of the chance to stun at sectionals," she confessed. "So, when Finn told me what happened, and asked if I could come over and cook a bit so he didn't have to wake you up, I jumped at the chance. Hungry?"

Kurt moaned deep in his throat, pulling himself up so he was sitting instead of laying down, and eyed the soup.

It smelled good, certainly, and a part of him, he supposed, was hungry, but lately his appetite had seemed simply…gone.

"Maybe later," he mused. "I'm not actually all that hungry. You know, you didn't have to do this, Rachel."

Rachel's eyes got an odd wet look, and Kurt recoiled a bit.

"I meant that in a nice way," he told her hesitantly, too tired at the moment to get his snaky side in proper working order.

"You're usually beyond irritating, but right now you're not all that bad to have around."

…Okay so maybe there was more snark in him than he'd realized.

Kurt winced inwardly, but heard himself go on.

"Then again, you have only been in here about three minutes, so I'm sure you'll be up to your usual standards quickly enough…Thank you for the thought, though. I'd have never thought you up to actual domestic activities like making someone a meal, or just generally contributing to them staying alive. It's pleasantly surprising to discover that your realm of thought goes beyond yourself from time to time. "

Her eyes were positively glistening now.

Kurt swallowed his heart, but felt it rise back up any way.

"I'm sorry, Rachel," he muttered belatedly. "I'm just tired is all. I'm usually so much better censored than this. I do appreciate the soup."

"Good," Rachel said, and her voice was somehow both firm and, contrarily, vulnerable. "Then eat it."

"I will," he smiled.

She stared at him, and he felt himself shrink slightly.

"When?" Her voice sounded…weird somehow..

What was going on with everyone today?

"Don't you want to join Finn and Puck?" he asked sharply. "Your fashion choices are beginning to offend me now that my eyes have adjusted and I'm fully awake, and compared to my décor they're even more alarming than usual, so I'd be absolutely fine with you rejoining your boyfriend right about now."

He couldn't seem to stop the words escaping, something he'd noticed happening a lot lately. Too often. Kurt hated it- hated _this_ , really, this feeling as though his control over himself and his life was steadily slipping away.

Rachel simply withdrew her phone from her pocket and texted.

Not even a minute later, the door to the basement banged open, Kurt unable to suppress a flinch at the sound, and both boys bound down the stairs.

Now Kurt had three sets of eyes watching him, and he couldn't in the least fathom what was going on.

"Have I developed some sort of monster breakout or something over the past two hours?" he asked bitingly.

"You look great man," Finn said, his voice intense. Then: "…in the least gay way possible, y'know. Like…I'm not into you, but…Um, Tina likes your ass."

Kurt raised an eyebrow at his step-brother, then said slowly, "Finn…what's going on?"

"Nothing dude," Finn blustered. "You should eat. The soup. It's good."

Kurt sighed.

"Puckerman, did you dare him to drink Nyquil again or something?"

Puck simply shook his head, dark eyes fixed on Kurt.

"Do you not like tomato soup?" Rachel asked pointedly.

Kurt turned back to the girl reluctantly, feeling increasingly at a loss.

"I have no problems with tomato soup. Did Puck make his Nana Connie's brownies again? Because he made a double batch before they decided to leave me, and I gave some to our next door neighbors, who called the other day asking where I got the pot for them."

"I haven't made any brownies," Puck spoke up. "Dude, you know how easy you always were to throw in the dumpsters, right? You took the least effort out of all the nerds to toss last year."

Kurt scowled.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked irritably.

"Just, you weighed like nothing."

"Okay, I just woke up, and I do not need this," Kurt groaned. "I'm going to leave for awhile, alright? Get some air."

"Aren't you going to eat your dinner first?" Rachel asked, looking horrified.

"Finn, make your girlfriend take her crazy pills before she talks to me from now on," Kurt snapped. "I'll be back later."

He grabbed up his phone and a couture windbreaker from a hanger on his wall, then stormed up the stairs, taking his keys off the hook by the door and quickly going outside, eager to escape the insane asylum his house apparently was becoming.

The sad part was that he was probably becoming nutty enough to fit in, especially after earlier.

Speaking of which.

Kurt sighed, climbing into his Navigator and placed his key in the ignition, then pulled out his phone and reluctantly texted Dave, swiftly receiving a noncommittal response that only managed to make him more concerned, despite himself.

David was so unpredictable; Kurt couldn't help but be afraid of what the older boy could do if he was upset. He reacted to things so violently.

Dave could have decided to drink himself into oblivion or do drugs.

Both of which could result in fatal things like alcohol poisoning or overdose.

He could have hurt himself.

He could be planning to do worse to himself.

Or, with as old as he looked, he could probably get into a bar and get drunk, and if he didn't hurt himself, he could see someone gay and lash out.

If what the boys had said had gotten to Dave enough, the possibilities of what he could do were limitless, and, for the most part, very bad.

He sucked part of his bottom lip in and bit into the sensitive flesh, then, before he could change his mind, texted Dave to meet him.

He had his phone on him, and he'd dealt with Dave before, so he figured he'd be fine. He just wanted to know how the jock was handling his brother and Puck's threats. He wanted to take control this situation somehow, and to be sure of what he should be expecting.

Besides, he decided as he started his car and pulled out into the night, maybe this was the perfect time to convince Dave to drop their arrangement. He could maybe convince him that it would be in both of their best interest this time.


	13. Boil pt.2

_"It_ _has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.”_

_\---Chaos Theory_

…

 ___"There’s a ripple effectin all that we do. What you do touches me; what I do touches you.”_

 **_\---_ ** _Anonymous_

_~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~_

Ohio was, in general, a very seasonal place. Its Summers were sweltering; its Winters frozen, and always blanketed with snow. Lima was no exception to this rule, and as Winter crept in, the air became thick with chill, the night skies swirling with foreboding puffs of cloud and tapestries of storm.

In the midst of all this, Kurt Hummel sat limply on a park bench, his limbs held slack, completely still aside from the occasional cold-induced spasm of an arm or hand, the offending appendage usually falling swiftly back into a resigned flaccidity upon his knees.

His eyes were focused on the hard dirt beneath his feet, the toe of a brown boot burrowed just slightly into the earth. He heard footsteps coming toward him, and the base of his spine slightly tightened, though his gaze remained fixed, both seeing and unseeing, on the ground below. The footfalls, meanwhile, drew closer still, the figure eventually stopping less than a foot away before fluidly pivoting and falling back.

Kurt's body subconsciously adjusted itself, pulling his weight slightly away from the bulky figure now beside him, but aside from the minute change of posture, he remained as utterly stagnant and impassive as he'd already been.

The pair of them sat in heavy silence for a stretch and sliver of eternity, tense but still somehow serene as they stood together at this single brink, peering as one into chaos of storm as it brewed about them.

Then, abruptly, David cleared his throat, and the unity fell stiffly away.

Kurt rolled his head ever so slightly so that his eyes could, for the flicker of an instant, meet with Dave's, then rolled it back again, glasz once more pinned to the dirt at his feet.

His toe dug down a bit further, then pulled back quickly, the other retreating back as well, and his ankles crossed neatly, tucked awkwardly back and to the side, twisting into the bench's shadow.

"I'm glad you came," he offered, his voice a wisp, melting into a passing breeze.

He peeked at Dave through his periphery, eyes closing momentarily at the other boy's terse nod.

"You didn't have to," he added needlessly after a moment, unable to summon the energy to be annoyed at either the slight escalation of his tone, nor the lack of response received.

Jerking a breath into his lungs and ignoring the feeling of slow compression that rose, Kurt tried again.

"I didn't tell them anything." A bit angrily, whether it was with David or himself (honestly, at this point, it seemed if anything both), Kurt added sharply, "I should have." The cutting castigation did, surprisingly, catch Dave's attention, and his head rose.

Kurt was momentarily stunned by how lost and young his bully and blackmailer looked right then and swallowed thickly, tearing his gaze back to the ground.

"But I didn't," he reiterated, the words carving an odd hollow into his chest.

"I know," Dave finally replied, and Kurt was struck by how he, too, sounded empty.

"How?"

"They told me. And they didn't know about any of the…other stuff. Just that they thought I'd beat you up."

"Which you did," Kurt couldn't stop himself from reminding Dave, who simply shrugged in response.

"You wouldn't listen," he replied simply.

It was clear in his voice that the sentiment was a genuine one, and Kurt knew he should be afraid, terrified, truly, but he didn't seem have it in him just then. He wasn't quite sure where this drained feeling was coming from, but it fully encompassed him, and Kurt didn't particularly enjoy the idea of fighting it just to be overwhelmed by panic or terror all over again.

Later, though, later, he knew the words would rattle in his skull for hours on end, and, perhaps, break free to join with the mess of others that had, of late, made each of his dreams a nightmare.

The words pulsed between them for a heartbeat or two, before melting into the backdrop of the park around them.

"Why did you ask me to meet you here?" Dave sighed, his voice gaining an edge of impatience.

Kurt's hands moved together then back, fingers tensing in his lap.

He decided to answer honestly, saying quietly, "I guess I was worried."

"About what?" Dave sounded almost…angry, and this time Kurt had to work to contain a flinch. The numbness and reflection he'd been absorbed in since his arrival at the old park began to ebb away at the sound and at the growing danger he felt in his mind, screaming.

Kurt already missed the serene sensation.

"I don't know, David. You, I guess," Kurt's voice was both bitter and resigned, his anger and exhaustion near tangible in the air between them.

"Why the hell would _you_ ," Dave stood, "be worried about me?" Scorn and resentment enveloped the sentence, and Kurt inwardly shrunk from it, though outwardly he simply straightened up his back a bit more and defiantly tipped up his chin.

"I thought you hated me, isn't that right? You say you don't want it, don't you?"

"I don't," Kurt found himself yelling back. "I don't want it! And I do hate you, you complete Neanderthal! More than anything right now, I can't stand you!"

"Then why the fuck would you care, huh? What do I matter to you?"

"You matter because I understand you," Kurt said helplessly. "I hate you and everything you've done, but I get why you're doing it, and I wish… I just want to be able to help! If you could just gain some control over yourself and accept who you are-"

Dave's hands shot forward to grip Kurt's shoulders, wrenching him up.

"Don't tell me who I am," he snarled, the words tinged with desperation. "Can't you fucking stop it Hummel? This is all your goddamn fault in the first place. Everyone always said you were fucking contagious, and I ended up getting your fucking disease. That's it! But I can get better, okay? I just have to get these urges out, I just have to get them out of me-"

Kurt's eyes were wide, breath escaping in gasps, as Karofsky shook him and then, suddenly, he wasn't being shaken, but instead Dave himself was, tearless sobs wracking his solid form.

Kurt collapsed back onto the bench, shivering.

David's words from that first time in the closet rang through his head.

_**Maybe you're right! Maybe I am sick! But, you know what, Hummel? You're sick too!** _

_**And the only way a sick fuck like you will ever get the type of attention you're desperate for is from a sick fuck like me!** _

Kurt's teeth found the sensitive flesh of his lower lip and dug sharply in.

Eventually both Dave and Kurt's shuddering breaths faded into silence and then, quietly, Dave went to the tree beside the bench and leaned heavily back against it, head pressing backwards into the rough bark.

"My Dad likes to hunt, you know?" he whispered, eyes closed to the world around him.

Kurt nodded, despite his relative disconcertion, to the empty air before him, knowing David wouldn't see the motion but not caring quite enough to stop it.

His dad enjoyed hunting occasionally, as well. It wasn't exactly an uncommon interest in Ohio. Though his dad had always said that fishing was a million times better, something with which Kurt completely agreed. Fishing was, after all, an infinitely less messy affair, and by far more interesting. He could also always bring a few fashion magazines with him fishing, something you really couldn't do with hunting. He and his dad had actually developed a system when Kurt was around eight where if Kurt agreed to both going fishing and actually participating, only minimal complaining involved, then Kurt could give all the lectures on fashion, music, and/or theatre that he wanted to over the duration of the trip, and his Dad would listen to literally his every word, no griping and no groaning allowed.

He really missed his Dad.

"He really likes doing it, and when I was little he taught me to, too, y'know. It was all I could think about when I got home today…and I saw our cabinet… I can use a gun if I want. I know how they work, and their power…and where to aim…"

Kurt's breath caught as he realized where Dave's monologue was going, and the pool of dread in his stomach intensified.

"I took this one out from the drawer in the base of the thing, earlier."

Kurt heard the rustling of fabric and completely forgot how to breathe.

"You have it with you," he whispered, voice choked. "You brought it…?"

"It wasn't on purpose," Dave mumbled.

Kurt didn't believe him.

"You need help," he said after a beat, unsure who the words were more directed at.

"You can help me…" Dave whispered. "You can get it out. I just need to get the urges out, and then I'll be fine."

"That's not how it works."

Kurt felt like crying.

"It's my only chance," Dave replied fiercely. "I can't be like you, Kurt. I have to be normal. I just want to be normal. If I get this out with you now, then later I can be. When it matters, I can be just like everyone else."

"Why is that a good thing?" Kurt asked, voice matching the other boy's in intensity.

No reply.

Kurt lifted a palm and rubbed the heel of it over one of his eyes, fingers dancing down to pinch the bridge of his nose tightly, hoping it would help with the migraine pressing from the back of his forehead.

"…I'm sorry."

"What?" Kurt asked, confused at the abrupt turn of events.

"Nothing," Dave retorted loudly.

Kurt stared at the jock.

The gun had been placed back in the pocket of his black jacket, but now that he knew it was there, Kurt could see a hint of its outline leering out at him.

He closed his eyes, self-loathing washing his innards, eating them away at what he knew then he would have to do.

 _Courage_ , he remembered, unbidden.

He found he'd never hated a word more.

Kurt swallowed away the dread burning at his throat, pushing back the voice in his head that begged him to _just get out of dodge now_. After all, he reminded himself, he was already in this. And now, again, he was sure that there would be no escape.

After all, David Karofsky had a gun in his pocket.

Kurt wondered randomly if the barrel was pointed his way or David's, but forced that thought, too, into evanescence.

"David, if I may?" he whispered. Then, not bothering to wait for a response, Kurt swallowed once more and forced himself to plow on. "I want to add to our arrangement again."

The hazel eyes snapped open, turning on him.

"What?" Dave asked, anger and uncertainty lapping at the frays of his voice.

"I want you to promise me you won't use that gun in any way." Kurt paused, gathering himself and his _courage_ before he continued on:

"And in return, I'll make sure the truth about you being…about your _urges_ …doesn't get out. And if anything ever causes any suspicion on you, or anything, I'll help you."

"Yeah? How would you do that?" Dave sneered.

Kurt laughed against his will.

"All I have to do is be myself and people talk about me," he told the other boy. "If I ever upped that or actively tried to get that attention, you can be sure that you'd be forgotten about in an instant. And… if the truth of what you do to me is ever even hinted at…"

" _What I do to you_?" Dave scowled.

Kurt ignored the question.

"I'll go along with whatever story you concoct," he finished unhappily, his gut twisting uncomfortably at the thought.

He couldn't believe he was enabling Dave like this, but all he could think was that he'd do _anything_ to make David Karofsky not touch the gun he held ever again. He wanted the weapon back where it belonged, and under lock and key. If he told anyone, which he definitely wanted to now more than ever …he was sure in this moment, if he hadn't been before, that David had both the means and the motivation to fulfill his word.

And if he didn't do anything at all? Dave _would_ eventually be found out, and then… Kurt shuddered to think of the possibilities of what an angry and hurt David Karofsky that both held and could operate an automatic, loaded weapon could do.

Kurt was only sixteen; he didn't know what to do here…

So, he was doing all he could think to do, and he would keep within the boundaries of what Dave had demanded.

Kurt had, of course, always been a fan of the idea that he would be true to himself and damn the consequences, and he had no intent to change that ideology, but right now, in this moment, with that gun at the ready and only a few short yards worth of distance from him, Kurt wasn't even really sure who he was beyond a boy that liked other boys, and that had a father who had only just barely survived the loss of his first wife and would likely not make it through that of his son as well (at least not right now), and a _mortal_ , whose life could be taken from him in an instant by the boy he was now warily watching.

Kurt remembered vaguely that thing, about how "guns don't kill people; people kill people", and all he could really think was that actually having that gun, though, sure as hell helped.

Case in point- he'd gladly take a Karofsky that had only his fists and his fury over a Karofsky who had both of those things, _and_ a semi-automatic weapon locked and loaded and ready to put a bullet in both of their brains.

"I don't know," Dave said quietly, his eyes now on Kurt. "I can't just…"

Kurt forced himself up, and walked slowly over to David, stopping a mere two feet from the jock. Crystalline blue now, his eyes were clear and resigned and brimming with sadness as they met the darkened hazel of Dave's own sharp gaze.

"Do this one thing for me," he requested. "If you'll do nothing else, do this."

He _wanted_ to ask David to either agree to his proposal, or release him from their deal altogether instead, as he'd intended to do in the first place, but now the latter desire frightened him as well. From what David was saying, their warped agreement, for all it hurt, _killed_ , Kurt, might actually be helping the jock, maybe even was now the only thing holding him back from killing himself. And knowing this, or suspecting this, he was also sure that no matter how much he craved escape, he couldn't ask for it again, not while sticking with this he might actually be able to help another lgbt individual the way so many of his greatest idols had helped him.

After all, if Kurt just looked at this whole ordeal as an opportunity to make something of himself and help the cause he so loved… well, in some small way, it did make him feel a bit better about everything that had happened recently with Dave.

Bearing this all in mind, as well as the ever-present gun, whose outline he could see even more clearly at this range, Kurt sealed his lips against the words desperate to form, and waited for a reply to the question he'd asked in its stead.

Dave held his breath, fists curling in the material of his jacket, wrinkling the cheap fabric carelessly, and then nodded curtly.

"Fine," he affirmed, both voice and gaze turning harsh, face twisting. "I won't use the damn gun. Whatever," his voice became harsher still, "But I also want you to stop being such a little bitch with me, got it? I'm in control, this is my deal, and I don't need to put up with your uppity, annoying ice-bitch bull crap on top of everything.

"Don't think I didn't notice you avoiding me today, alright? You keep acting like you have all this say and _proposing_ shit, and if I'm gonna promise you anything, then I don't want to hear any more bitching from you, ever again. Next time you try 'proposing' something, I won't be as good to you as I'm being now, got it?"

Kurt bit back the instinctive angry retort he wanted to give and shook his head yes, resolved to do what was necessary to see this thing through, and get that gun away from the both of them.

Dave nodded once more.

"Good," he said, voice growing quiet once again. "Then…I'll see you at school tomorrow. You can stay late… and maybe during lunch. I want to see you before my athletics class. So I'm not…"

Kurt winced at the implication, understanding instantly what David was referring to. He obviously wanted to appease his hormones, and thus curb the "urges" he kept referring to. Kurt wondered vaguely what David would do to him when it didn't work, but immediately pushed the thought away.

If he allowed himself to think about it, he would lose his focus, and slip.

And he really couldn't let that happen...

After all, David Karofsky, despite his promise, still had a gun in his pocket, and Kurt suspected it would only take one wrong move on his, or anyone else's, part to make the jock put his finger on its trigger, and pull.

* * *

"You gonna eat that?"

Kurt leveled a glower at his glee-mates.

"You're kidding, right?" he asked irritably, pulling a water bottle from his backpack and placing it on the tray in front of him beside what was apparently McKinley's idea of a fruit salad and a juice-carton.

"Just wanted to be sure," Artie piped up, grinning at him.

Kurt frowned. He'd been told the night before by Finn, Puck, and Rachel, in literally the most awkward and obviously staged conversation of his life, that the Glee Club as a whole had come to a general consensus that they should meet up for preferably both breakfast and lunch to, in Rachel's words, "solidify their unity as both a show choir and a family, thus strengthening their performances for competition, and their appeal to various panels of judges", apparently none of whom would be able to resist the New Direction's "new, more cohesive charm".

It had, obviously, sounded like a very Rachel Berry-reason, so he hadn't found the encounter too strange at the time, aside from the awkward, too-enthusiastic support of Finn and Noah "I'm-a-badass" Puckerman, which Kurt had ultimately just chalked up to either drugs or sex/hormones, in addition to their lack of adult supervision once again going to their heads.

He was no longer so sure, though, as mere seconds after he'd walked into the cafeteria, just slightly later than Finn and Puck because he'd wanted to turn in some extra credit work for his art class after losing points on a project the week before, he'd been accosted by Mercedes, Rachel, and Tina, all of whom seemed to be vibrating with energy as they dragged him to one of the lines, all the while interrogating him about how his dinner last night had been and what exactly he'd eaten, as well as attempting to make him put every single supposedly-edible thing that had crossed their path on his tray.

He'd eventually managed to escape and get his own food, only to reach the table and immediately be greeted by his friends all turning to stare at him intently as he went to sit down.

Then, Rachel had snuck up behind him just as he'd gone to actually sit and managed to take him out at the knees with his own chair for no apparent reason whatsoever.

He suspected she was taking her old man-hands nickname a bit too literally again, but was still debating the theory. Rather poorly at that, his thoughts falling into an uncharacteristically angry swirl beneath his friends' scrutiny.

The staring hadn't diminished in either number or intensity, if anything growing in the latter, as he'd gone about removing his plastic fork and knife from their package, and pulling the lid from the bowl containing his fruit, then opening his carton of apple juice.

And now, just as he was preparing to spear a strawberry with his fork, Finn was asking him if he was going to eat…? And Artie was suddenly concerned about it as well, which, again, made _no sense_.

He had to wonder what Finn had thought he was going to do if not eat…

This was insanity.

"Okay, I need you to tell me the truth. What on Earth is going on? …Are you guys doing Vitamin D again or something, because I cannot handle another one of those Rachel-on-speed diatribes, especially if she keeps up the bright colors. It's still Fall, Berry. Not the time for those colors, or bobby-socks or…just, you know what, throw out your whole wardrobe. Then we'll be good, and you can be as annoying as you want." He took a deep breath. "Now truth."

Rachel rolled her eyes and petted, yes _petted_ , the puppy dog lolling its felt tongue from the front of her sweater.

"It's nothing," Tina grinned at him. "Oh! But have I mentioned that you look amazing today?"

"You totally do," Britt exclaimed, face lighting up. "You look like a shrub."

"You're saying I look like a bush?"

Brittany looked appalled.

"No way, Kurt. That guy's old and has a weird voice, and his skin looks like a raisin covered in chalk. You look like a baby. Like a baby angel."

Okay, so she'd meant cherub then. Well, that made…a bit more sense.

The new-girl's (Kate the Untalented's, he reminded himself scornfully) brow was furrowed with confusion as she stared at Brittany, and Kurt just barely stopped himself from snapping at her to stop looking at Britt that way. Even if Brittany had just managed to call him both a bush and a baby in less than a minute, no-one was supposed to give her looks like that.

Or, well, random girls that were trying to take his place in glee weren't allowed to, at least.

"But a skinny baby," Mike told him, and several members of New Directions chimed their agreement.

Kurt pursed his lips and arched his brow, then went to pick up his fork and start eating again, only to find everyone watching him intently. Again.

He glowered.

"Alright, that's it. I'm leaving. You lunatics have fun staring each other down in my absence."

"Kurt, wait," Rachel screeched.

He whirled to face her, an actual growl beginning up his throat.

Hadn't he dealt with enough, already? He didn't need this, not from them. Not after last night.

It felt like they were all conspiring against him or something at this point. Wouldn't be surprising seeing as he'd already had a replacement chosen…

Bitterness contorted his lips into a deep cross between a sneer and a scowl.

You'd think that after last night, after facing the very real possibility of being shot, that the ridiculous antics of his friends would be like nothing. Instead, they only compounded the weight on his back, probably fully aware that he was breaking bit by bit. After all, at this point, how could they not see how torn and hurt he was? Even Kurt could no longer deny that he wasn't okay.

"What do you want?"

"Your food," Rachel said quietly. "We'll stop watching you, okay, Kurt? Please…just eat."

Kurt sighed, the fight rapidly draining away. A part of him wanted to antagonize her further and lash out again and maybe even defer to the "pear hips" comment Coach Sylvester had made the year before as an excuse not to do what she said, if only to see Rachel upset.

Just to see if any of them would care, even.

But most of him was simply tired, and that part won.

"Fine," he uttered shortly, returning to his chair.

This time everyone seemed to be making a concentrated effort to either not look at Kurt at all, or to only flicker their gazes in his direction when they thought he wasn't looking.

Kurt, however, was no longer paying attention.

His phone vibrated against his upper thigh and he covertly slipped it from the tight constraints of his pocket, automatically pressing the pad of his index finger to the notification's "open" option.

_**From: No Boundaries, Neanderthal (8:11 am)** _

_**Just realised we didnt get to fool around last night. Wish we did you're already making me get the urges again. Your pants are so fucking tight been too long already since I got off with you last. Janitors closet by Lews US history class during first sounds good. ;)** _

_**Call: 4192659931** _

Kurt grimaced at the words, then shot a quick look around him. Everyone seemed preoccupied debating their relative merits performance-wise, excluding Rachel, who looked meaningfully from him to his food, grinning when he scowled and forcefully scooped a few fruits onto his fork and shoved them into his mouth. She gave him a wink and turned back to her boyfriend, while Kurt glowered at her, then back at his phone.

He'd resigned himself the night before to this, hadn't he?

For what must have been the hundredth time since he'd first furthered his arrangement with Dave the night before, Kurt hated himself for the decision he'd made and, perhaps even more, hated himself for knowing that, in a heartbeat, he'd make that same decision all over again. He'd have done, and in fact felt he _had_ done, absolutely anything to make that gun go away.

The knowledge terrified him. David had already had too much power and control over him for comfort, and that gun had only made things worse.

Even now-

Kurt knew Dave had put it away and promised not to do anything with it as long as Kurt kept his word.

But, still, he could _feel_ it. And it was ridiculous because he knew the ugly thing hadn't left Dave's person once, but, still, _he could feel it_. It was right there, right…everywhere. A barrel against his forehead, against the back of his neck, abdomen, thigh, even buried, thick and iron and disgusting, in the dry confines of his mouth and throat.

Kurt sighed, setting down his fork numbly, appetite fleeing as readily as it had come.

Ignoring the looks cast his way, Kurt brought out his phone once more, and texted back.

_**To: No Boundaries, Neanderthal (8:14 am)** _

_**I can't cut class! My dad will find out, first of all. And, secondly, I'll have to go to a hearing if I have one more unexcused absence.** _

Kurt checked over his spelling and grammar quickly twice before sending the message, an odd sense of satisfaction filling him at the thought of having done something pretty perfectly, that David had not.

He looked up to find his friends all, once more, staring at him, and made sure to groan as dramatically as he could, an angry flush mounting high on his wan flesh and satisfaction spindling away into nothingness.

"Yes?" he asked acrimoniously.

Several visibly winced at his tone, while others (namely Puckerman and Santana-bitch) looked only angry. Britt and Kate the Untalented alone seemed to differ from either reaction, the former the solitary individual not presently watching him, instead absorbed in some sort of video on her phone , and the latter seeming only deeply perplexed.

"You're not fat," Finn said in a serious voice. "You don't need to lose weight."

Several heads nodded in agreement, including the new girl, and Brittany added seriously, "You're acting like Lord Tubbington, Kurt." Then, "he thinks he's really fat, too. He wants to go on Atkins. He and I are talking about it first, though."

Seeing Kurt's confusion, she added, "Don't worry. You're totally hotter than Lord Tubbington, Kurt. He has only a tail at his butt. Your butt is awesome."

"Okay, wait. What's going on? What does she mean?" Kate asked.

Artie muttered something in her ear and her eyes went wide as she turned back to Britt.

"Wait, so you're not just being sarcastic?"

Kurt wasn't sure if he should crack up at new girl's obviously incorrect conclusion about Britt or introduce her to her very first serious fashion critique from him. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but went ignored.

"What?" Brittany asked, frowning.

"But no-one's that stup-"

"That's it, bitch. I don't care if you're new or a senior or whatever, you need to back off Britt, do you comprendo?"

"Look, I'm just confused," Kate exclaimed, eyes narrowing. "I didn't even ask to be a part of your stupid club. I just needed an extracurricular. And no-one told me about her or any of you! What was I supposed to-"

Santana cut her off again, face twisting.

"Then you can leave. And if we need to replace Kurt, I can deal with Israel again."

Again that word. Those words, really. _Replace Kurt_. Kurt scowled, arms crossing over his chest.

"That's not fair," Kate retorted irritably.

"Life's not fair, sweetie," Santana replied, voice oozing condescension and loathing. "Now, you have on the count of three, and then the razors I've got tucked all up in my weave will be coming out to cut you. You following me now?"

"Santana, as much as I'd love to get rid of Kate after she made Mr. Schue yell at me, and even further under-appreciate my incredible talents, this really isn't fair."

"Oh, don't even get me started on you, dwarf," Santana growled.

"As fun as all this is," Kurt announced loudly, "there's only thirty minutes left until first period, and I have a few things I'd like to get done before class starts."

"Sit your ass down, Kurt," Santana barked.

Kurt reddened.

"Excuse me," he bit out. "But I didn't vote Rachel queen last year, and I certainly didn't vote you in this year."

"That's only because you're the biggest queen around here," Santana snorted derisively.

"Hey! Don't talk to my brother like that," Finn took over as Kurt froze, blood rushing in his ears.

"Keepin' it real," she said defensively. "And don't pull that 'Super-brother' to the rescue bull crap, alright? Everyone knows you think he's too flamboyant and whatever too. Just last night you were talking about it, weren't you?"

"You said what?" Kurt asked, a wave of numbed rage washing over him.

"And now you'll get all defensive and have a bitch fit over nothing and prove him right," Santana quipped. "Because that's what queens do. You know, not every gay person has to be like that, okay? Guy or girl, w- they don't have to be a massive stereotype of fashion and musical garbage and having a damn golf course!"

"I know that," Kurt all but screamed back, David's face flashing in his mind's eye. The beginnings of another panic attack were stirring in his gut and he worried hard at the inside of a cheek.

"You guys are all insane," Kate snapped loudly.

Santana whirled back towards her.

"You wanna say that again, poppin'fresh?" she asked dangerously, before muttering angrily under her breath: "coño estúpido."

"Guys, everyone's staring," Tina called out plaintively.

And indeed everyone was. Kurt swallowed at the looks he was receiving from the jocks as a whole this time.

"I say we take this to the choir room," Rachel directed, tone absolutely imperious.

"Please," Tina added hastily.

"See, and I thought you were past that whole shy-liar-freak persona," Santana spat in Tina's direction.

"I'm in a madhouse," Kate mumbled. "This is obviously all a hallucination, and my head only feels like it's going to explode because the straitjacket's on too tight."

"No, let them keep going Tina," Quinn said, looking pleased. "If Coach Sylvester sees this, Santana may just get kicked off the squad."

"You're already head cheerleader, though, so why does it matter?" Sam queried.

"Politics," Santana replied for Quinn, features steadily darkening. "Plain and simple. High school politics."

"She'll lose everything," Quinn added coolly. "Just like me."

"Oh, but see, no, no I won't. Because I'm not a pregnant slut."

Quinn was on her feet in a flash, ready to launch herself across the table at Santana, but Sam held her back.

"Choir room," he said in a hard voice.

This time there was no protest.

* * *

"We have twenty-one minutes left before first bell to sort this out," Rachel informed them all as they arranged themselves about the choir room.

"Good, then I want an apology," Quinn huffed from next to Sam.

Santana rolled her eyes.

"You know what, I am sorry. That you can't handle the truth."

"Will you just cut it out?" Puck spoke up. Everyone's eyes went to him, though his own were fixed on the floor. "That was a bitch move, Santana."

"And I'm a bitch, so…"

"God, can you just stop for one minute?" Finn exclaimed.

"Finn's right, Santana," Rachel cut in.

"Is that so?" Santana asked. The maliciousness had drained from her voice, replaced with thick, smoldering resentment.

"Look, we all know tensions are high what with competition in two days and Kurt's problem-"

His problem? …Did they mean David? Kurt swallowed, both fear and relief warring within him, shredding his already frayed nerves completely apart.

"Oh, for God's sake. I don't care about Kurt, alright? And you don't either. You're just taking him on as your project because you need something to keep you busy while the rest of us get to have some spotlight for once!"

Kurt flinched back. His fear and relief both fled, tight fury and hurt taking their place, coiling an iron grip around his lungs.

"How am I your project?" he inquired fiercely.

"You're not," Rachel replied, throwing a quick glance his way. "Santana's just doing what she always does." Then, once again to Santana, "Even if Kurt hadn't been in Glee with us since the beginning, I'd still be concerned about him. He's my boyfriend's step-brother, and I happen to actually care for the people around me. I wouldn't expect you to understand that, of course."

Finn reached for Rachel, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and Santana's lip curled.

"So freakin' charming," she scoffed. "You know, dwarf, I get that. I mean, when Hudson and I slept together…" she trailed off, a smirk tugging at her lips as Rachel pulled away from Finn, mouth falling slightly ajar. "Wait. Don't tell me. You thought he was still a virgin."

"Shut up, Santana," Finn roared.

"You slept with her," Rachel said quietly, taking several quick steps back. "And then you lied to me about it?"

"You told me you slept with Jesse," Finn reminded her desperately.

"But then I told you the truth," Rachel retorted, plainly blinking back tears.

"I just didn't want you to be upset," Finn tried to explain, looking frustrated.

"Yeah, well, you should have known that waiting would only hurt me more," Rachel uttered softly. "I-I've got to- Just- I can't see you right now."

She spun on her heel and hurried out. There was a long moment of stunned silence, and then, to everyone's collective surprise, Mercedes dashed out after her.

Another beat passed then Tina and Mike retreated as well, holding hands as they cast disapproving looks at their peers.

And Quinn, pressing a manicured nail threateningly in Santana's direction as she went, Sam on her heels.

"You're such a bitch," Finn said finally, collapsing into a chair, head in his hands. "I should have never even gone near you last year."

"Um..we're going to class," Artie spoke up. "Come on, Brit. Kate, you coming too?"

Both girls nodded and the trio traipsed from the choir room.

"It was your fault," Santana spoke up defiantly. "A real man would have told his girl the truth."

"Dude, don't listen to her," Puck said, sounding angry. "A real man can screw shit up. He just has to get his shit back together afterwards. You say you're a leader or whatever, so go the hell after her and stop whining."

"Fuck, you're right," Finn grumbled, forcing himself to his feet. His eyes caught on Kurt, who was sitting ramrod straight in a chair towards the back of the room, entire body tensed, then darted back to the doorway.

Kurt's eyes flicked open, and the step-brothers' gazes connected for a long moment, before Kurt inhaled deeply and pulled his cerulean-grey stare to the floor. Finn swallowed and kept his eyes trained for a second longer, softening with apology, then ran from the room.

"You need to stop being like this, Santana," Puck intoned, standing up.

Santana glared right back at him.

"I'm just being honest," she snapped. "Not my fault if people can't take it."

He laughed coldly.

"God, you know as much as what happened last year sucked, I'm glad I had…Beth, and everything with Quinn. It helped me realize what a douchebag I was being. How much of one I just plain fucking am."

"You haven't changed," Santana said in a harsh voice, and, in his seat, Kurt had the distinct impression that he was not meant to hear this. "You were in juvie until, what? Maybe a month ago?"

"Because I wasn't being honest about how things last year changed me," Puck said quietly, voice hard. "And, trust me, my stint there really got the message through. Maybe it's time you tried that, instead of just being a bitch all the time. If you'd wanted Finn that much, you should have done something else. Whatever. I'm out. Sick of dealing with your crap. Let me know when you get some balls, okay San?"

Then, he too was gone.

Santana let out a scream, kicking out at one chair, then shoving at another.

Kurt looked up, watching quietly as she destroyed a good portion of the first row, then started up, gripping his messenger bag to his shoulder as he headed for the door. Just as he was about to exit, though, a hand closed around his upper arm.

Kurt turned, ready to snap at the latina to leave him alone, but something in her expression stopped him.

"I'm really sorry about what I said," she told him, her sharp gaze a frightening contrast to the contrition in her tone. "I don't even like guys that much," she said in mounting frustration, hand releasing him to rake through her long hair.

"You what?" Kurt gaped, all thoughts of anger momentarily disappearing. "Are you saying you're…not straight?"

"I'm not like you or any of the freaky lesbians on tv," Santana told him passionately.

"No-one said that," he came back, exasperation making itself plain in his own features as well. "I'm so sick of this! Just because I'm gay and I like fashion and traditionally "stereotypical" things doesn't make me the devil or anything! I joke around sometimes, but I'm not an idiot, okay? I know you think I am-"

"I didn't say that," Santana hissed. "Don't put words in my mouth, alright?"

Kurt stared at her, long and hard, then, abruptly, let his eyes slide shut.

"You like Brittany," he said. There was no question about it, just pure fact.

"Shut up," Santana ground out.

He smiled sadly at her. It came out more like a grimace.

"Just promise you won't try to manipulate her into anything?" he asked after a beat. "She's with Artie. She's happy with Artie. And if she's really thinking about him instead…"

"We aren't like that," Santana tried to defend herself. Kurt simply shook his head.

"We've all known you two hook up for ages. In retrospect, it's not all that surprising you fell for her. Britt's easy to care about."

"You know, it might not be so bad if you disappeared," Santana growled.

Kurt shrugged away from her, his spine tensing, chin jutting out.

"Forget it. I just wanted to help. But I shouldn't have bothered. You said yourself you don't care about me… By the way, frankly, purple isn't a good color for you. It just doesn't go with your evil. I have class."

"Kurt," Santana said warningly.

He just gave her his coldest "bitch, please" expression, lips pursed, nose wrinkled with nostrils flared, features scrunched up, and ducked away, stalking out the door.

The latina stayed behind a moment, fingers straying down to brush over the paper backing of a picture tucked neatly into a netted pocket on the side of her backpack, Kurt's words stabbing persistently at the inside of her head.

Finally, hearing the final bell, she summoned the energy to walk out, casting only a single nondescript glance at the destruction she was leaving behind her.

* * *

Sectionals.

Blaine Anderson was perched on a cushion in the Warblers' green room, doing his best to focus his thoughts. They'd opted out of watching the Hipsters, who would probably be on in just a few minutes now, to psych themselves up and stay on their game, or something to that effect.

He really hadn't been paying as much attention to Wes's rant as he probably should have been.

"Blaine," an emphatic sigh came from beside him, and Blaine hummed vaguely in acknowledgement.

"Okay, seriously, I want to meet the guy he's this hung up on," he heard Jeff mutter to Pell Olivers, who snorted in appreciation.

Blaine cheerfully swung out his leg, catching Pell on the ankle and the other boy swore quietly.

"Jeff was the one who said it," Pell complained.

Blaine grinned and nodded in agreement, his foot searching out Jeff's shin.

"Dammit, Blaine," Thad groaned. "That was me, not Jeff. Are you going to continue acting like a spastic toddler until you see this Kurt guy?"

"Of course he is," David chimed. "He's in lo-ove. He thinks Kurt is _adorable_! And that's a direct quote."

"I didn't know guys our age could even be adorable," Theo frowned, standing in front of the mirror as he tugged at the cuffs and collar of his blazer, working to find some semblance of equilibrium.

"Kurt's special," Blaine told them seriously, just as Wes entered, scowling as he heard the comment.

"Are we really discussing our dear little spy _again_?"

"I just don't see how a guy could possibly be adorable," Theo reiterated.

"I do! I do it all the time," Jeff smirked.

Nick leaned over and socked his arm, the pair exchanging grins.

"He looked like a little kid," David informed them. "He could easily pass for a ten year old choir boy."

"Doesn't that make Blaine's thing for him a little perverted?" Pell asked quietly.

Pavarotti chirped away the awkwardness in their silence.

Blaine glowered truculently at the room at large.

"I don't like him that way, anyway," he said irritably. "We're just really good friends. And he's amazing. _And_ beautiful, even if it is in a different from the norm, alright? I'm just worried about him… I got used to talking to Kurt almost every day, so it's been weird not getting to for two weeks."

The Warblers groaned aloud as a whole, but no one bothered arguing. They knew Blaine well enough by now, most of them for the better part of two years at least, to know that there would be no arguing him into realization.

He often did that sort of thing, deciding on an emotion or setting and being oblivious to every other possibility until it basically leapt on him from out of nowhere. If a change happened in his perception, it had to sort of appear from nowhere and probably slam him over the head.

He was essentially, in that respect, Isaac Newton, needing the apple to come down on his head in order to even begin discovering gravity.

"Okay, if I let you go say hi, will you come back and be focused and ready to perform?" Wes asked resignedly.

Blaine started up.

"Absolutely," he exclaimed. "I'll just run and say hi." He was already at the door, and on his way out when he called back, "I'll be back in like five minutes, I swear!"

Blaine ambled quickly down the hall towards the only other green room, past a couple that appeared to be arguing over adultery, but just before he knocked the door swung open, an Asian girl storming out, ranting something about suspicions and a girl named Brittany, and an Asian boy hurried out afterward.

Blaine frowned. If New Directions was like this right before competition, there was no way they could actually win. They seemed completely crazy.

Verging on maniacal, actually, he decided as he stepped into the green room.

The entire place was in chaos. A blonde girl was rocking back and forth on the bench just inside, with a blonde boy that could have been her twin sitting beside her, probably attempting comfort, though for what Blaine didn't know. Another blonde girl, this one short and irritated looking, her hair curling around the point of her long chin, appeared to be arguing a tall, muscular boy with a Mohawk. A thin Latina girl was sitting alone in a corner of the room, a scowl seeming permanently etched on her pretty face, eyes dark, angry and brooding and filled with figurative flame that could likely burn them all alive were it turned literal.

Meanwhile, off to the side he spotted Mercedes, who appeared to be having some sort of intense discussion with a short but loud brunette, a very tall, awkward looking boy Blaine vaguely identified as Kurt's step-brother standing just off to the side, eyes flickering between Mercedes and the girl as if transfixed.

And, finally. Kurt.

The younger boy was fussing over his tie in a mirror towards the back of the room, much as Theo had been doing before, though Blaine frankly thought it a vanity only Kurt could pull off without looking narcissistic or obsessive.

Though he seemed to be gaining speed toward the latter…

The tie was hanging perfectly, yet Kurt continued to adjust it almost frenetically, frustration evident on his face.

He was just about to head over to the countertenor when he heard the bellowed word "Spy!" and the tiny girl from earlier slammed into his side, taking him off guard and causing him to fall back against a small stack of boxes, all of which promptly collapsed.

"Not a spy," he exclaimed quickly, pulling himself up as gracefully as he could manage and holding his arms up in the universal gesture for harmlessness.

The girl's eyes narrowed and he shrunk back a bit from her piercing scrutiny.

"Then what are you doing here?" she asked sharply.

"Kurt," he replied without falter, and the girl's gaze immediately moved to Kurt, who had turned from the mirror and was presently watching the goings-on with his blue eyes blown wide.

"Is this true Kurt?" the girl asked accusingly. The eyes of the entire room were focused on him.

He swallowed and tilted up his head, chin jutting out and eyes narrowing just so, before replying in clipped tones, "Yes. He's my friend, Rachel. Blaine."

"You've been fraternizing with the enemy," the girl, Rachel, called out, clearly scandalized.

"Oh, back off, Berry," Mercedes sighed. "We all know how lonely he's been. He was worried about everyone freaking out weeks ago when Ms. Holliday was subbing and I told him he had no reason to worry. And he shouldn't have to."

"You knew about this, then," Rachel clucked, tone oddly admonishing. "Even after you guys flipped out on me last year. You guys are such hypocrites!"

"I'm sorry, Rachel," Kurt spoke up, though he didn't actually sound sorry at all, and he looked, if anything, angry, which was just plain _weird_.

Kurt had never really come off as the particularly angry type. Frustrated, perhaps, but not outright angry. Obviously, Blaine hadn't known him very long, but he'd thought he at least knew him well.

But something seemed different, something Blaine couldn't quite put his finger on.

Something was wrong.

He frowned at Kurt, trying to figure out what that could be, while the younger seemed to have only eyes for one Rachel Berry.

"If you were sorry, you'd have never- Oh my God! That's why, isn't it?"

"Why, what?" Kurt queried, conspicuously annoyed.

"Why you've been being so weird! Why you haven't been eating and you've been so much more emotional."

He'd been what? Blaine was horrified. Something must have happened, then. Maybe with that guy Karofsky…? Kurt had been avoiding the subject for almost two weeks before they'd had to take their break, and things could easily have gotten worse. Then, abruptly, Rachel's voice once more broke through the haze of his thoughts.

"You're in love," Rachel declared, and both boys started and flushed. "Kurt, how could you? After everything with Jesse last year?"

"No, no. We're not like that," Blaine hastened to clarify. "I mean I care about him and all, but it's strictly platonic."

"He doesn't even look gay, like Kurt," the gawky boy laughed, flashing Rachel a grin, while Blaine, Kurt, and, to his surprise, Rachel's jaws all fell ajar.

"Excuse me?" Kurt asked, voice razor-sharp.

"Dude, I cannot believe you just said that," Mohawk gasped from the corner, guffawing loudly.

"Actually, I am gay," Blaine drawled, the coldness of his tone surprising even himself.

"Oh," the awkward boy stuttered, reddening. "That's…cool…"

"Blaine, what are you doing here?" Kurt cut in.

"Oh, I just wanted to wish you luck," he said suavely, a bright smile making its way onto his face as he turned back to Kurt (finally!). "It was so hard not talking to you these past two weeks, you wouldn't believe."

A slow smile lit up Kurt's face, though some darkness lingered in the shadow on his quirked lip.

Blaine didn't notice, aside from a vague sensation of discomfort along the edge of his happiness.

"I missed you," Blaine confessed, still beaming. "No-one else will discuss Vogue with me while helping me put on a tire when one of mine blows out."

"Again?" Kurt laughed. "That's insane, you know that? I just gave you that one, and I made sure the pressure and tread were both perfect!"

"It's a talent," Blaine admitted. "This guy John fixed it up for me in exchange for a favor, but it wasn't the same."

"Then, call me next time," Kurt instructed sternly. "I solemnly swear to discuss Vogue and debate the merits of Katy Perry each and every time."

"You sure you guys aren't together?" Rachel interrupted, looking suspicious.

"We aren't," Blaine assured her, offering his hand, which she carefully shook.

"Sure sound like it," Mohawk muttered. Several nods coursed through the room, and Blaine ignored them.

"Anyway, I've got to be getting back. If I'm not in the green room in the next thirty seconds I swear Wes will have some kind of brain aneurysm." A pause then, to Rachel, "You know, I could introduce the two of you if you want."

Rachel frowned.

"I don't date competition," she informed him primly.

"Anymore," the Latina girl jeered from the corner, and Rachel's nostrils flared as her eyes darted to the girl.

"Anyway, may the best team win," Rachel told him. "Which of course means New Directions. Prepare to be awed."

"Sure," Blaine grinned. "But you might want to wait to see us before you get too arrogant."

He winked at her, waved at Kurt, and turned to leave.

Just as he was preparing to breach the corridor, he felt a hand land on his shoulder and turned around into a fierce hug with Kurt.

"I'm sorry I had to not talk to you," Blaine murmured, and he heard Kurt sniff over his head and felt the boy's throat contracting, heart thrumming. "Something's wrong. Kurt, what's going on?"

"Nothing," Kurt whispered hard, and Blaine felt the boy's throat once more tense with a swallow.

"You'll tell me later?" Blaine requested.

Kurt didn't reply, just clung closer for a moment then pulled back abruptly, blatantly avoiding Blaine's gaze.

"You needed a hug, huh?" Blaine asked, fondness mixing with concern.

Kurt shrugged.

"Always nice," he commented dryly.

Blaine nodded his agreement, a strange awkwardness seeming to thicken in the air between them. He'd never felt as such in Kurt's presence before, and wanted more than anything to know how to dissipate it.

"I'll see you after," he said, inwardly wincing when it came out like a question.

Kurt gestured vaguely in the affirmative, and Blaine shifted his weight.

Blaine darted a glance at his watch. He was approaching six minutes, which meant he had about five to get back before Wes ended up birthing some sort of cow.

He spotted the Latina girl behind Kurt, then, watching them. Their eyes caught, and hers narrowed, almost reflexively, before veering sharply from him to Kurt and then to the doorway. She did it twice before he understood.

She wanted to talk to him…

He frowned, wondering if she would know what was going on with Kurt, and turned his attention back to the younger boy, frantically trying to come up with an excuse to make Kurt-

"Kurt, what's going on with your tie?"

"What do you mean what's going on with my- you know, I've got to get back and so do you." Kurt's hands were already up and fiddling with the garment.

Blaine repressed a smile.

"Go take care of it," he exclaimed. "I can always see you later."

Kurt jerked his head in a hasty nod and hurried back to his own green room. Blaine cast a longing look behind himself as the other went.

Wes was going to stone-cold murder him.

He wondered if telling the uptight senior of the drama their biggest competition was apparently going through behind the scenes would help his case in any way.

The latina girl stalked up to him, and Blaine automatically went back a few steps.

"Hi," he offered.

The girl rolled her eyes.

"Seriously, hi? That's all you can think of? Do you have any game?"

"Not really," Blaine retorted, his voice growing just a bit cold.

"Figures. Look, I'm Santana Lopez. Now, what did I just say my name was?"

Blaine frowned.

"Erm…Santana Lopez?"

What kind of game was this girl playing?

"Right. You'll want to remember that. You'll also want to remember that I'm from this little place called Lima Heights Adjacent, alright? Bad stuff goes down there, got it? And I've got a bullshit sensor like a bloodhound, so if you lie to me, I'll know. Do you understand me?"

Blaine's jaw clenched, but he nodded nonetheless.

"Good. Now, are you playing with Hummel?"

"What?" he asked, nose wrinkling in confusion. Then, his expression smoothed out and his fingers tugged lightly at the knot of his tie, pulling it straight. "No, of course I'm not. He was the spy, not me."

For a second she seemed taken off guard, but the surprise swiftly vanished.

"As much as you reek of cheese, I don't actually think you're lying," she informed him. "So, here's the deal."

She pulled out a sharpie and grabbed his arm, ignoring his protests as she pulled up his sleeve.

"Something's been wrong with him. Now, I doubt it's lovesickness. As pathetic as Hummel can get, he doesn't get this bad over anything that easy. And, unlike the rest of those imbécils in there, I don't think he has an eating disorder."

Eating disorder? Blaine barely felt the cold tip of the marker finishing off its scrawl on his flesh.

"What are you talking about?" Blaine asked, stomach squirming at the very thought.

"Okay, ADD-hobbit, did you forget your Adderall this morning or something?"

"What?"

"Geez, nothing, okay Curly? The important thing is, if you're as close to Hummel as it looked like in there, maybe he'll tell you something, alright?"

"So, I'll be helping you help him," Blaine concluded.

"No! Well, yeah, but, not like that okay? I just kind of owe him for something I said earlier," Santana defended.

Blaine didn't exactly doubt the last part, but the first sounded suspiciously like a lie. It was obvious this girl cared, even if she didn't seem to want to admit it.

He glanced at the number etched on his arm and nodded slowly.

"I'll text you," he told her. "If something's wrong, I'll figure it out. Kurt trusts me. Or at least he seems to."

"Good," Santana said curtly. "Now go back to your little virgin stepford orgy or whatever. I gots to go over my performance one more time before we crush you."

Blaine found himself smirking as he turned to run back to his own green room.

Just before he entered he sent two texts.

He stuck to 'Courage' for Kurt, adding only on second thought a "p.s. No matter what happens, I know you'll be amazing out there"; then, to his brand new contact "ND, Santana":

_**To: ND, Santana (7:13 pm)** _

_**you're on.** _

_**And btw, you're not fooling anyone. Don't worry I won't tell Kurt or Mercy that you actually care. Wouldn't want to hurt your rep. I'll let you know what I can get out of him. ~Teenage Dream: We'll Be Young Forever~** _


	14. Meliae and Ouranos (or: The Result and The Blood it Comes From)

"I still can't believe we only tied," [Mercedes](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/14/Vibrato) took it upon herself to grouse in Rachel's stead.

Mr. Schue seemed disconcerted a moment, and darted a too conspicuous glance around the room for the Jewish girl, before wrangling in his attention and directing it back to the [class](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/14/Vibrato) as a whole.

"It was still a good [job](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/14/Vibrato), you guys. But if anything this should serve as a wake-up call. Next up we have regionals, and after that is Nationals in New York. Now, Vocal Adrenaline has Sunshine and we all know that they're a shoe-in to take their own heat at Regionals this year, which means we need to up our game if we want to get all the way to Nationals, let alone win…"

Everyone exchanged glances at this.

Kurt absentmindedly swiped the pad of his thumb over the screen of his iPhone.

"I don't care what you say, Mr. Schue. No way we should have lost to those uniformed freaks. I think we need a recount," Puck commented. "I'm sure I could bribe Zizes into digging up some dirt on the judges…I swear that chick's been wanting on this since Artie and I did that impromptu performance of 'One Love'. Though, really, who could blame her?"

Rachel and Kate the Untalented scoffed simultaneously, and Rachel turned in her seat to glower fiercely at the senior.

Kurt scrolled mindlessly through the videos on his youtube, barely paying attention to the titles flickering past, then went back and began scrolling through his pictures instead, pausing once in a while to zoom in and admire a few pictures he'd taken of some of his more recent creations- one a near perfect imitation of the black drape admiral cardigan from the Vivienne Westwood line and another an All Saints Sargon Funnel, both projects that were inching closer and closer to a glorious completion.

"Sorry, Puck, no blackmail," Mr. Schue retorted.

He was excited for them, as they were absolutely top of the line fashion, but also because the fabric was of a much kinder variety than what he'd lately worn. Kurt subscribed to the "no pain, no gain" mode of living as much as anyone, but some of the injuries Dave had given him were particularly painful and he loved any excuse these days to wear ensems of a softer variety. _Which,_ he reminded himself, _was fine_. During both Winter and Fall the soft look was _always_ in vogue.

"I'm with Puck and Mercedes," Tina spoke up. "With the way Mike and Brittany danced during Santana's number, the Warblers' synchronized stepping was really just so far below us."

Although, beneath it all, a part of him had to wonder when it was he'd started viewing fashion as a means to ease pain and hide bruises just as much as a means of expression.

Kurt hated both himself and Dave all the more for the development.

He should've gotten out when all this first started. He'd probably had a chance then, even if he hadn't seen it.

God, there were so many things he should have done, it killed him.

Remove a variable, just one, and where could he be?

Happy, perhaps. Safe, probably.

Mike grinned over at his girlfriend's praise.

At least, Kurt inwardly snarked, he'd not yet lost his ability to throw himself the most fabulous of pity parties…

"That lift was a huge maneuver, too," Mike added, obviously more confident then he'd been just a minute prior. "I wasn't even sure we could pull it off."

He made a mental note that he needed to buy some more cloth this afternoon before he went home. It was high time to start working on that Gucci scarf he'd been examining these past few weeks. The better his imitations became, the more apt his aunts were to send him further genuine articles of high-fashion to treasure, like the Marc Jacobs sweater he'd worn early on last year.

And, wasn't that just such a stupid move, though granted not one Kurt would really take back (after all, every moment was an opportunity for fashion). Kurt was just lucky he'd become something of a wizard when it came to cleaning clothes. Like Harry Potter, but with better fashion. And less sleeping with horses.

"I was," Brittany said pleasantly. "It's because of my magic."

She paused, a slight frown wrinkling her forehead as her voice turned serious and almost strangely vindictive.

"Not the comb's, though. I won't let that comb steal my glory. It was completely unmagical, and I threw it away. Just so you know. That dancing was all me…and Mike. We're both super talented."

"Totally. My girlfriend's the bomb, yo" Artie grinned, pushing up his glasses and tilting his head slightly back.

"Um…Hey…where's Santana?"

Rachel scowled over at Sam.

"Why? Are you hoping to have sex with her too, and then lie to your girlfriend and say you're still a virgin?"

"No…I just noticed that she wasn't-" Catching Quinn's narrowed eyes on him he shrunk a bit. "I'm not! I swear to God I'm not."

Before either girl could intimidate him any further, a voice drew the class's collective attention to the doorway.

"Oh, were you just talking about me dwarf? See, cause I can never be sure whether that annoying high-pitched sound is you or someone banging a bag of cats against a wall. Either way, I guess someone should let PETA know. Since, you know, you're kind of a cruelty to any animal that's not both blind and deaf, anyway."

"Santana, do you have a reason for being late?" Mr. Schuster asked tiredly from next to the board.

Santana shrugged.

"I fell down the stairs and twisted my ankle," she said offhandedly.

"You're not limping," he pointed out, though it was obvious he didn't actually care enough to truly fight her.

Santana ignored him in favor of marching straight to where Kurt was sitting and pulling his messenger bag off of the seat beside him, making to toss it to the floor. He glowered at her, one hand snapping out to snatch the bag from her grip, and she rolled her eyes.

"So, Hummel, you care to tell me why you're ignoring my homeboy?"

Kurt's eyes lifted back from where they'd re-fixed on the screen of his iPhone, nose wrinkling slightly.

"Excuse me?"

"You know, guys, if you want to win you'll have to pay attention," Mr. Schuster announced from the front of the room.

Not even Rachel moved to face him now. Instead everyone seemed focused on Santana's apparent desire to confront Kurt about something or other, or had taken the Latina's appearance as their cue to start either goofing off or making out.

Instead of trying again, Will sighed and moved to his desk, shuffling through some paperwork reluctantly. He figured it was just easier this way.

"The hobbit you like," Santana reminded Kurt nonchalantly.

"The spy," Rachel tacked on meaningfully.

Kurt groaned.

"He's not a spy, Rachel. And I don't like him, alright? Mr. Schue, if I may, weren't we doing an assignment?"

"I've decided to give you guys today to discuss what we already talked about among yourselves, actually," Mr. Schue huffed out, "since you didn't want to listen when I was trying to help this class out just a few minutes ago."

"Hear that, Kurt? I guess that means you can answer my question," Santana smirked, her tone becoming mockingly dulcet.

Kurt cocked his jaw to the side, eyes narrowing at the girl.

"Since when is Blaine your…homeboy…anyway?" he asked tersely.

"We hung out this weekend. He's not bad for a prep-boy. A little too good-looking to be a gay, but whatever."

"Too good looking to be gay," Kurt repeated questioningly, irritation coloring his tone.

Santana shrugged.

"Chill, Hummel. Fact of life: Gay chicks are all usually super hot and slutty or super mannish and virginal. And gay dudes are supposed to have that gay face thing like you do, where you can tell just looking at them. And they're all either hot and macho or girly and frail and gross you out if they pop up in your head when you're masturbating, like you. Anyway, Lame said you guys agreed to meet up after, but you disappeared and you haven't answered his texts or calls or some shit."

She drew a nail file from her bag and relaxed back in her chair, filing casually, and Kurt stared at her with reddened cheeks and a gaping mouth, feeling almost as deeply disturbed as he'd been when Dave had had the gun in the park.

He honestly didn't know what should bother him more, the implication that he'd been in Santana's head before as she was…doing that, which was invasive and uncomfortable and made him feel a bit sick (a sensation that had finally begun to ebb away from his gut rather recently) . Or that he repulsed her. He supposed the last wasn't too bad, since he was gay and she was at least bi. But still… And of course there were the casually ignorant homophobic comments, which weren't too unexpected from her, but never truly stopped hurting.

"Gay is not a face," he settled for, and she rolled her eyes.

"Don't get your designer panties into a twist, Hummel. It's just something I picked up while I was trolling online. Aparently, Zefron's got it bad," she laughed. "Now, seriously, what the hell is wrong with you? Lame said you guys are supposed to be like best friends or something."

"We _are_ best friends," Kurt sighed. "I just…had to leave. I had somewhere I needed to be. And it was none of his business."

Santana stared at him for a long moment before exclaiming, "Oh, holy hell! You're totally cheating on him, aren't you? Man, Hummel, getting it on with some closeted homo and stringing along Curly Q. Who knew you were such a whore?"

"Excuse me?" Kurt asked, horrified.

"I bet you're thinking of dumping him like last season's platforms, too, aren't you? Just because he had to take a break from you; you know that was just some stupid rule for the Blackbirds or the bluejays or whatever they are. It's not like he wanted to not talk to you for two weeks."

"Okay, I told you, I'm not even with Lame! I mean- Blaine. He and I are not a couple."

There was a heavy pause, wherein literally every activity in the room seemed to have stopped, and not a single set of eyes was anywhere but Kurt, and then-

The Latina looked smug.

"But you did go to meet someone last night, didn't you? And you don't want Lame to know. Or any of us. So much for friends huh?"

"I…"

Kurt could feel his breath beginning to hitch and speed up. The lie that should have been effortless at this stage of the game was stuck in his throat with all these eyes on him.

His lower lip quivered once before he sucked it into his mouth and bit down hard.

"Or family? What the hell, man?" he heard Finn's angry voice, as if from far away. "I'm your brother, now! You're meeting up with some guy? Why didn't you tell me?"

"So, I was right?" Rachel asked. "You are lovesick; it's just not about Blaine."

"Have you been toying with Blaine then?" Mercedes's voice called out. "Because I love you, white boy, but that's not cool."

"Hey, man, it's about time Kurt started getting some. Can't hold it against him if he just can't get it up for some shrimpy dude obsessed with hair gel. But, fuck, who knew virginal Hummel could be a sex shark? Damn dude. But it's cool. Just as long as you own it, it's totally badass to be a dude-slut."

Kurt's entire body grew cold in his panic, and he found himself speaking up loudly, a growl in his voice.

"Will all you losers just shut up?"

"Did you tell Blaine you were a virgin, too?" Rachel asked bitterly. "After you'd given yourself away to some random closeted jerk? Because I always thought you were better than that, Kurt."

The scream came before he could suppress it, tears of rage and anxiety and built-up stress and hurt crowded from his eyes and hurried down his cheeks, unchecked.

"I am not a whore! I'm not a whore, okay? I'm not. I didn't want it; I didn't ask for this. I can't…"

Sobs crowded in on his words, blanketing the screams that had so quickly fallen to angry, desperate murmuring, as though he were talking to himself.

"Kurt."

It was Mr. Schuster.

"Kurt, we need you to calm down alright? Take a deep breath. I'm giving you a pass. I want you to go see Mrs. Pillsbury. Do you need help getting there?"

Kurt was shaking, his head pounding and spinning. He closed his eyes tightly.

"I'll take him," Finn announced.

Puck muttered somewhere behind the buzzing in Kurt's ears that he would help too, and Kurt felt his throat start to close up.

He was dirty and he even let Karofsky touch him now, despite the fact that he remained as much a virgin as he'd ever been. He'd made a deal, after all. Sure, it was more about his survival and making that gun disappear, but…

_Was he a whore?_

His friends didn't exactly know what they were talking about, but Kurt's head continued to throb with the words and the scenarios. Karofsky's fingers on his skin, wrapped around his manhood, breath clinging a layer of filth to his cheek, leaving a dusty film over the skin along with another bruise somewhere on his abdomen or back or neck or leg. Somewhere, anywhere. The marks were all over him, like the tracks of a junkie, and the imprints of prostitution.

He _was_ a whore. He'd sold himself for safety.

Kurt felt hands on his arms, firm and unyielding, and forced himself to remember with all his might that he was safe, and fine, and no, they were not Dave's hands, and even if they were, that wasn't supposed to be a problem, and it wasn't allowed to be a problem, _because he was a whore, now, and they'd made a deal, Remember, Kurt? A deal. Made a deal, things were fine. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine. He was a whore, but he was fine._

His breathing began to steady out and the shaking of his hands went slowly down. The world began to swim back into focus, lenses rubbed clear, and he found himself in the hall just outside the counselor's office, arms wrapped securely around him, pulling him hard against a warm, firm, chest, and a thrumming heartbeat that resounded in his ears, slowly, little by little, overtaking the buzzing.

"What's wrong with you?" Finn was muttering over his head. "I don't understand. You're scaring me. You can't just be like this over some guy, Kurt. I don't understand what's going on."

"We were just kidding about the whore thing," he heard Puck behind him, and there was a dull realization of a hand's presence on his back that was not Finn's. He sank a bit into the comfort, and was surprised yet again. It was just like the night before, where he'd been so happy to hug Blaine.

It felt like ages since he'd had anyone really touch him other than David, touch him in a way that didn't hurt somehow, didn't take shreds of himself and burn them to ashes, curled cinder edges of paper heart.

He missed it.

"Come on bro, calm down," Finn breathed against his hair, and Kurt blinked out a few more tears.

"Boys?" he heard Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell, as she was apparently now officially known, say, and he forced his cerulean eyes, still wet with tears, to meet her wide brown ones.

"Kurt?" she asked, frowning. "What's going on?"

"Mr. Schue had us bring him down here," Finn told her, voice quiet. "He freaked out again."

"Freaked out again, huh? Why don't you all come in?"

* * *

"Okay, Kurt, now tell me how long have you been having these…freak outs?"

"Rachel says they're called panic attacks," Finn supplied and Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell nodded.

"Alright. Kurt, how long have you been having panic attacks?"

"Look, it's not a big deal," Kurt told her quietly, having gained his composure back in the time between the hallways and Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell paging Mr. Schuester to let her know that Finn and Puck would be staying with them, as well as reassuring both boys that she would give them passes after their meeting, despite Puck's protests that badasses didn't need a hall pass anyway.

"Really?" she asked, voice oddly clear of sarcasm, making it almost seem like a genuine question.

"Yes. I'm completely fine. I've just been a bit stressed lately, what with us only tying at sectionals. Plus, first semester exams are coming up. You know that."

"In two months," Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell said, frowning at him, before turning around to sweep her hand over the pamphlets twice thoughtfully before she grabbed two and placing them in front of him. "Kurt, lying is a very serious thing."

Kurt sighed, looking down at the cover of the first.

'Help! I can't get my nose to stop growing! How to stop compulsive lying.'

"I'm not a compulsive liar," he informed her, irritably.

Her eyes flickered down to the pamphlet and he groaned.

"I swear on Gucci, Marc Jacobs, and Alexander McQueen."

"Then, how about you tell me what's going on?"

"He's got an eating disorder," Finn burst out, and Kurt turned quickly in his chair to stare in horror at his brother.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he whispered harshly.

"Or he's having loads of sex," Puck countered from the side, and Kurt released a sharp cry of mingled humiliation and outrage.

"Don't listen to these two trolls," he commanded. "They don't even know not to wear two primary colors together."

But already, right in front of him, was a new spread of pamphlets.

Compulsive eating was right over the compulsive lying one, with 'Crashing the Crash Diets', 'Say no to Size Zero', 'Manorexia- It's okay! Boys Can Feel Fat Too!', and 'So you like throwing up?' all beside.

Kurt shook his head, muttering "Dear Prada, please tell me this is not actually happening. This is ridiculous."

"Well, you do look like you've lost some weight Kurt, let's be honest," Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell said patiently.

"I…" Another road block. Again, because he knew that that much was true, and it was so much harder to tell lies when the truth was offered straight to you.

"I've been sick a lot," he said finally.

She nodded.

"Uh huh…"

One hand casually came up and pushed the 'So, you like throwing up?' pamphlet at him and he scowled.

"I don't have an eating disorder," he said forcefully. "I have a weak immune system and a propensity to throw up when I see particularly awful fashions. Speaking of which, I can feel another bout of nausea coming on just being in here, and I'd hate to get barf all over your shiny, clean desk, Ms. Pillsbury. Or get your shoes again."

She flinched a little, wincing, and said briskly, "You know, I-I think I'll just have to agree. I think you're just fine, Kurt, just a bit strung out, maybe. But fine. We don't need to talk anymore today."

She shoved the entire stack of pamphlets she'd been picking out as they talked into his hands and narrowed his eyes.

"I can feel the bile rising up my throat," he told her dryly, and she let out another small groan.

"Yes, well, you can just- you can just go. Go see the Nurse and go back to class."

"What about our passes?" Finn asked, looking supremely uncomfortable.

Puck was smirking slightly at Kurt, though his eyes were troubled.

"I'll- I'll page the nurse to give them to you when you leave her office. Now, off you go. Kurt, we'll chat later, alright?"

"Sure, bye, Ms. Pillsbury," he said with just a bit of spite in his cheery voice.

She walked them to the door, plainly flustered, and Kurt watched out of the corner of his eye as she removed a disinfecting wipe.

He felt a little bad, playing on the counselor's nerves that way, but his temper seemed to be getting shorter all the time, and he really did not need to hear a bunch of rambling on eating disorders and such when he had bigger problems, like Dave, who was still angry with him, both because Kurt had apparently blown him off the morning before sectionals and because he'd seen Blaine calling and texting incessantly and was convinced that Kurt had somehow let slip what was going on between them.

This had resulted, of course, in yet another fight that morning before school, which meant a few fresh marks adorning his flesh, and the events had had Kurt a mixture of on edge and detached throughout the day. Thankfully, the New Directions meals together had been temporarily disbanded after the massive spread of recent fighting between all members and couples of the club, with even the ever-stable Tike relationship apparently having had some kind of feud alongside Britt and Artie. And Finn and Rachel, of course.

Speaking of meals together-

"Why on Earth," Kurt began, rounding on Finn and Puck once they'd broached the next corridor over, "would you tell Ms. Pillsbury that I had an eating disorder? How big of idiots are you?"

"It's not just us," Finn said back defensively, and Kurt twitched.

"Oh God, that's why everyone's been obsessed with watching me eat and complimenting my butt, isn't it? You guys are so unhinged!"

"Well, something's wrong with you," Finn replied shortly.

"Nothing," Kurt responded through gritted teeth, "is wrong with me. I'm fine. My anxiety's just been a little high what with Dad gone. That's it."

"Whatever," Finn muttered, looking angry. "Just go to the nurse alone then."

"I will," Kurt snapped, stalking off.

"So," Puck said quietly at Finn's side. "We there yet?"

"Yeah. We're there."

"Cool, I'll sign us out and we can make the call, then."

* * *

"Yo, Lame."

"Hey, ghetto," Blaine replied vaguely. "What's going on? Did you talk to Kurt?"

"Yeah," Santana replied, pulling a piece of gum from her bag and unwrapping it neatly before folding it into her mouth. "Seems like he's cheating on you."

"With who?"

She smirked, and he laughed on the other end of the phone.

"That was not me confirming anything, since there's nothing to confirm," he informed her.

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

There was a pause then his voice sounded again, this time with an edge of impatience.

"So?"

"So, nothing. He's been meeting up with some guy I think. But, when I tried to ask him more, he completely spazzed."

There was momentary static in the silence between them before he answered again.

"That doesn't sound like Kurt."

"Well, that's only because you haven't seen him lately," she shrugged, removing a tube of lipgloss and expertly beginning to apply it.

"Yeah, I know. Will you just tell him to call me?"

"I'm sorry, since when am I your bitch?"

"Well, you're definitely always _a_ one."

"Seriously, Stepford. Are you incapable of cussing or something?"

Another pause.

"…No."

She laughed, amused.

"You totally are. Wow. You have no game whatsoever. You're worse than Trouty mouth."

"Trouty mouth?"

"Blonde ken guy in glee," she told him.

"Oh…So you'll tell him?"

"Whatever, Lame. Anyway, I texted you the full deets during the end of lunch-rehearsal, so you should have all the info on your phone."

He laughed.

"Okay. That's good. Thanks Santana. So…What about Brittany? Do you still have everything covered?"

"Yes. Look, I don't even know for sure-"

"Didn't we already go through this yesterday?" Blaine asked, and Santana rolled her eyes.

"Shut up, Lame. I just figured I'd update you, okay?"

"Yeah I know. Thanks again for that. I really appreciate it."

"Don't mention it. Seriously, Betty Boop, your cheese is about to make me vomit. I'll just hit you up later, alright?"

"Yeah, sure. And, again, my hair ungelled does not make me look like a sexy cartoon character."

"Let's be honest with ourselves here, hobbit," Santana replied. "All you need are the tits and the slutty dress."

"You know, I'd love to debate my cartoonish-ness all day, but the bell just rang, so I've got to head to class. I'll talk to you tonight, Santana."

Santana rolled her eyes again and flipped her phone shut, not bothering to say goodbye, as per their usual, then pursed her lips at her reflection.

Abruptly, she recalled what she'd been considering telling him to do, and shot Blaine a last quick text on her phone before setting the device aside and beginning to gather up her purse from the locker-room's counter. She paused a moment more to smirk at the mirror over the next sink, before turning on her heel and leaving her reflection behind.

In the glass's reflection one sink over, a screen lit up.

Two minutes later, a cheerleader walking in spotted the phone, glanced around, and, with a shrug of her own, gathered it into her hands.

A smirk lit up her face as she realized to whom the item belonged, and then grew wider as she realized the subject of the opened text message chat on the screen.

* * *

"You'll never guess what my cousin found."

Dave sighed, forcing himself to turn and raise a questioning eyebrow at his best friend.

"Oh yeah? What?"

"The Singing Tits's cell phone," Z grinned.

Dave chuckled roughly, turning back to his locker and scratching a hand through his still-wet hair.

"Okay, how many naked pics of her did you find on it?"

Azimio scowled beside him.

"Z-e-r-o. No score, man. Fucking bitch locked her pictures down or some shit, and I couldn't get to the goods. But Lisa found _something_ , at least."

Dave pulled out his shirt, focusing still on the inside of his locker instead of the boys changing from their football garb around them.

"Oh yeah? What? Big bags sexting Brittany again?"

"Damn, man, do you know how much you're killing my mood?" Azimio groaned, plopping down onto the bench to start pulling his jeans on, placing the high-tech looking phone beside him. "Nah, I didn't find any sexy shit. But, there was some interesting stuff about the fairy."

Dave stiffened, pausing with his shirt half-way on.

Quietly, he said, "Hummel."

Z snorted.

"Who else? Hudson's got that loud, annoying girlfriend of his to cover up all his dirty incestual-ish school boy fantasies about lady-face, and Sam's with Quinn. Puck's the only Homo-Explosion freak without a girlfriend right now, and we all know what he's like."

Dave nodded into the locker, quickly shrugging on the rest of his shirt.

"True. So, what about him?"

"Apparently, the fag's got a boy-toy or some shit now," Z told him, somehow managing to sound only vaguely disgusted.

Dave flinched a bit.

Did that mean Lopez knew about him and Kurt?

Not that they were…boyfriends or any shit like that, but their…arrangement might look…Fuck. He was going to kill Hummel.

But not now, now Az was smirking over at him in his periphery, and he had to turn slightly to the side and return that smirk.

Unless, Z was smirking because he knew too, Dave inhaled a long, shuddering breath. He had to play this off for now, and he had to get more information here. He couldn't let Z catch on that there was any more to this, just in case.

Finally, he managed an only slightly strained, "Oh yeah? Sounds gross."

"Man, I know right? Fucking sick. Check this out."

And the phone was flipped his way. Dave fumbled to catch it and Z laughed.

"What's up with your brain today?" he asked. "Dude, you're like hardcore weird right now."

"Up late," Dave replied, thinking quickly. "Watching skinnemax."

As he'd expected Z laughed.

"That's some dirty stuff right there, man."

Dave smiled tiredly at his friend, fingers clenched tightly around the warm metal in his hand. If he pretended hard enough, it almost felt like he was holding his Dad's gun again, the foreign metal heavy and fantastic in his hand. Like power, or control. Like not having to hide anymore. He could just pull the trigger and take out anyone who wanted to mess with him.

Like Kurt.

Like himself.

Like Z.

Dave looked up at his best friend.

Az was tying up his shoes, completely unaware of the path of his friend's thoughts, and Dave wasn't sure anymore if that thrill of power excited, hurt, or terrified him.

He shoved it down with the rest of his monsters and let the metal slide out of his palm and onto the bench as he quickly did up his jeans and belt.

* * *

The phone was in his hand again as he made his way towards the boy's bathroom close to the choir room, where he knew Kurt would probably be.

Dave didn't know exactly what he meant to do; what he did know was that he was pissed.

Z had told him some of what he'd read in the conversation between Santana and that stupid Blaine (or Lame or whatever his name was, since he seemed to reply to both), and let Dave borrow the phone to 'check it out' and 'see if he could hack into the pictures', since Dave actually was good at math and technology stuff. And what he'd read…

Apparently, not only had Santana and some of the others caught on that there was "something wrong" with Kurt, but Santana had texted the dude earlier in the day telling him that it looked like Kurt was hooking up with a guy in their town. Which meant Hummel was being way too fucking obvious.

As much as Dave appreciated the boy's ass and everything, Kurt needed to seriously learn his place, and he needed to get better at hiding shit.

Dave figured he'd just have to help move things along then. Raise the stakes, before Kurt managed to fuck things up for them both.

He wished for the fifth time in an hour that he just had his damn gun. Give him that back, and he could make this all just go away, and that's what he wanted right now. He wanted it all to go away.

 _He could lose everything here._ All because the fairy was a fucking idiot. Or was just actively trying to screw him over. Dave wasn't sure which he preferred.

But no, he was already in way too deep. Had been ever since he'd fucking stupidly lost control in the locker room.

He didn't regret anything he'd done after, really. Couldn't. Dave was pretty sure this whole thing couldn't have gone any other way than how it had.

Unless, of course, he hadn't chosen to be nice, and had just killed Hummel when everything started going wrong. Dave knew he shouldn't think that, obviously, but he also knew, he just knew, that if Hummel was dead or gone to some other school or _something_ , everything would be solved. As for now, he was just trying to make the best of it, which meant using Kurt to get rid of the urges and using blackmail to keep him from being a bitch about it. And Dave could not regret the things he'd done that had become his only means of survival just because he knew they were a little on the shitty side.

He paused at the door to the boy's bathroom, flexing his fingers around the handle. The choir room was literally just down the hall, and he could hear music coming from within.

Kurt had told him that they had practice after school to make up for what had happened in their before-school rehearsal. Dave didn't know what that was of course (didn't care, didn't ask), but he did know that Kurt was planning to stay after and run through a song or something, and that was probably exactly what he was doing now.

Dave frowned down at the handle for a moment, then swung forcefully off from it and to the side.

Football practice had ended late enough, despite not having Finn or Puck there with them, that it was probably only Kurt left in there. He was already starting to hear the sounds of that high, faggy voice picking up volume and power.

Though he wasn't sure why, all Dave knew in that moment was that he needed to cut off that voice before it swelled too high, before it could take over more than just the choir room, but also the halls just beyond, and then out to the parking lot and the streets. If he couldn't cut the noise short, it would take over the world, and he'd be knocked away into nothing.

He couldn't let Hummel have that.

Back drawn up, hands balled at his sides, and fury drawing lines across his face, David started towards the singing, a dark part of his mind already turning it into a scream.

He needed to put Kurt back in his place.

* * *

Kurt wasn't the sort of guy who put his stock in inexactitudes, or in invisible sky-monsters that apparently enjoyed condemning virtually everyone that wasn't white, Christian (or Catholic or Jewish or virtually any other religion), a strict follower of said religion, and male.

He liked to deal with the things in his grasp, and know that the vast majority of things in life had at least some chance of being fixed.

You couldn't do that if some invisible dwarf behind the moon was calling all the shots.

None of this, however, could stop him from feeling like the universe was _seriously_ out to get him. Especially lately.

"I need to talk to you, Hummel."

Especially right now.

"Dave," Kurt sighed. "What do you want?"

He kept his gaze focused on the piano in front of him, one finger trailing lightly over the keys.

Footsteps behind him started up and he kept himself stiff and still, finger lingering between the two possible B's.

"Oh, I want a lot of things," Dave's voice was dark and heavy behind his back.

Kurt swallowed, lifting his chin slightly so that it jutted out, eyes still on the piano.

"Like what?" he asked, voice eerily calm under the weight of the other boy's animosity at his back.

"I want the urges gone," Dave said quietly, and Kurt almost snapped out a "me too," because much as he was proud of who he was, he had most certainly not chosen this life. If he could, he'd do away with having any urges whatsoever. It was beginning to seem like all such things did was get you hurt, anyways.

As it was, he only let his finger dip down slightly, the clang of the key's note stealing the quick moment of silence between them to pierce the tension and reverberate through the air.

David's hand abruptly found Kurt's upper arm and threw him up from the bench and into the piano, now behind him. Dave moved forward, like a bird of prey, fixing his beady, hungry glower on Kurt.

"I want you gone," Dave murmured, moving forward so that he was flush against Kurt, breath ghosting over the milky skin of his neck.

"I want everything back to how it was before. And I want you to stop messing around and being a fucking bitch and a whore. I want you to stop being the most transparent fag in the universe. I want you to keep your word, for once! But I guess I don't always get what I want, do I?"

Finn's voice from the first sectionals began to creep through Kurt's head, a sweeping bottom current, but he couldn't bring himself to let it take over the way he wished it would, and sweep the rest of this away. Where was Finn with his music ready for all of them, or his red shower-curtain dress? Kurt needed someone to step in these days more than ever, so where were they?

Not that he _really_ needed them, or anything. Kurt was fine. He was handling things. He could take care of himself.

Inwardly, Kurt wanted to snort.

Oh, obviously. He was so good at taking care of himself, so strong, wasn't he? Pressed up against this piano, danger lifting the hairs on his arms, breath coming fast. He was stone, glorious and impassive and impossible to hurt, wasn't he?

"Sing for me."

Kurt was sure he'd heard incorrectly, and the incredulity showed on his face.

So like stone, wasn't he?

"Sing," Dave commanded, a dark look in his eyes. "Like before."

When Kurt didn't respond, Dave's hand tightened even more around his bicep, blunt nails puncturing the supple flesh beneath.

Kurt searched frantically through his inner music library, unsure what to do. The order took him even more off his game, out of his element, than usual.

"Do it," Dave's voice held the promise of more pain, and Kurt realized with reluctant horror the swell of the jock's erection pressing against his thigh, and the hand creeping inward, toward the tight buttons of his shirt. He glanced towards the doors of the choir room, but each was closed and appeared locked.

He wasn't sure why beyond the present moment, but he hated those doors, above even the jock pressing without care into his space.

Kurt's mouth opened and closed several times, before he finally began to sing, eyelids fluttering as he attempted to maintain eye contact with David, worked to forge some sort of connection and ascertain the boy's state of mind.

His voice fell soft and sad over the lyrics, making them something else, something different, craving and hope and plea all alive in the strains of his high notes and shaky dreams.

" _Here comes the sun. Here comes the sun, and I say it's all right…_

_Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter._

_Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here._

"Louder," Dave hissed against his pulse, and Kurt took a shaky breath, closing his eyes and reaching into the depths of himself to pull out the determination and hope and plea for better days. The words continued to tumble out and he blanketed them in his deep-seated need for them to be true, for the days to be better, and the sun to be out. The notes were stronger this time, as he let the rest of the world fall away.

He knew others thought it was stupid, the way the Glee kids would sing about their bad days and their agonies as if it made it all better. It didn't. It couldn't. But it did help, and Kurt could already feel the words searing themselves within him, burning molten down his throat like some healing elixir.

" _Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, and I say it's all right._

_Little darling, the smile's returning to the faces_

_Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here_

_Here comes the sun, here comes the sun_

_and I say-"_

Abruptly, hands wrapped themselves around Kurt's neck and his eyes snapped open, sputtering a bit around the words.

"What are you doing?" he asked, horrified, the words emerging choked, but with all the strength of song returned.

"Keep going," David said, voice strange in Kurt's ears, eyes dark and focused and filled with anger. "If you stop, I'll kill you."

"What?"

"I never took you to be stupid on top of a fag."

"David, what are you-?"

"We had a deal that you were going to stop being such a bitch, didn't we?" Karofsky sneered.

"I'm not being a bitch," Kurt snapped back as best he could, unable to stop himself. "I just don't understand-"

"If you don't keep up your end of the deal, then I don't keep up mine. Now, sing."

And because there was nothing else he could do, and the godforsaken gun was back in his mind's eye and on the back of his neck, and buried thick and wrong in his throat, Kurt jerked his gaze to the side and forced out his voice.

" _And I say- it's all right_

_Sun, sun, sun, here it comes..._

_Sun, sun, sun, here it comes..._

_Sun, sun, sun, here it comes..._

_Sun, sun, sun, here it comes..._

_Sun, sun, sun, here it comes..._

Dave's hands were ever tightening around Kurt's throat, but he persevered, even as every breath of air began to throb, and subconscious tears clung crystal to the rims of his eyes.

" _Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting_

But he couldn't keep going forever, and already as Dave squeezed tighter and tighter, he could feel his will slipping, feel his voice disappearing.

" _Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear_

_Here comes the sun,_

He was gasping by now, the words just barely managing to croak their way out, head spinning and vision darkening, as though with some putrid, ebony cloud.

" _Here-_

_Here comes the-_

_Sun…._

_and I say it's all righ-"_

As he just began to broach the final lilting tones, Dave's other hand moved from his shoulder to join the one on his neck and, staring into Kurt's eyes, they began to press down together, wrapped just so, so that not a single word could come out any longer.

Darkness rolled over Kurt in waves as the little oxygen he'd been left with getting was cut off, and his mouth opened into a soundless, breathless scream.

Abruptly, Dave released, and Kurt was sent hurtling back, legs not quite working and collapsing beneath him, tears moving loose to roll silently down his cheeks.

Above him, Dave, too, was breathing hard, as though he'd been suffocating just the same.

At length, he gasped out.

"Do you see now?"

Kurt's only reply was the incessant shaking back and forth of his head and the rattling rasp of _inhale-exhale_.

Dave stared at the countertenor, his anger all but gone.

"You gave up, Hummel. You always think you're so strong, and your voice is always so damn loud, but you can still be made to shut up…"

"I'm not weak," Kurt breathed to the ground.

Dave sighed.

"I'm sorry I had to do that," he said, but Kurt heard no contrition over the roaring in his ears.

"But why the hell are you so bad at this Hummel?"

Kurt looked up at last, exhaustion shrouding his features, continuing to choke him down.

"Don't you blame your temper-tantrum on me, Dave, don't you dare," he snapped, though the words lacked any real spark.

"You could give me away," David said with an angry shake of his head. "So, I need you to know that there are consequences. I think you've been enjoying our sessions so much that you've forgotten."

Kurt's eyes blazed just a bit at that statement.

"I couldn't forget," he responded furiously, the force of the words unexpectedly strong , even as his voice continued to croak and break.

Dave, again, surprised Kurt by moving quickly back toward him, eyes focused and bright with intent.

"Yeah, and after this, you never will. Got it?"

Kurt tried to make himself stand, or do anything to get away from the piano where he was trapped, but found he was unable to do anything before Dave had reached him and grabbed firm hold of his shoulders.

"I want you to undo my belt," David informed him, and Kurt flinched.

"Excuse me?"

"You owe me, Kurt. Do you realize how much of a fucking idiot you've been? Santana Lopez said she and everyone else in your stupid Glee club know something's 'wrong' with you. And today she told your hobbit freak that you were hooking up with some closeted kid here at McKinley, probably. I need to get rid of the urges faster now, and that means I want you to fucking suck me off. Is that clear enough for you, princess?"

Kurt shook his head.

"No. No. I want to save that. I'm not ready for that. I…"

"We had a deal," Dave reminded him, and Kurt's arms crossed defensively over his chest.

"That wasn't part of it," he whispered.

Dave shrugged down at him.

"I need them gone, and I don't care what you say. I'm in control, alright, Hummel? I choked you once tonight; do you want me to do it again? Wouldn't want to permanently damage those vocal cords of yours, would you?"

"You can't do this," Kurt pronounced, almost against his will at this point.

"I can," Dave said, and the words were an unmistakable promise. "I'll do anything I have to to make it go away, Kurt. You made me like you, and it's your fault, and that means you have to fix it. So, again, _take off my belt_."

And Kurt, for all his strength, had never felt more exhausted and hurt and, so, though he kept fighting until David just took it off himself, and he kept struggling when Dave's erection was finally out and thrust against his unwilling face, the first he'd seen that was not his own, and he did his best to do everything wrong, mess up on every instruction, letting his teeth scrape down and moving clumsily, knowing all the while that he was probably being stupid and it would only get him hurt…Despite all of that...

In the aftermath Kurt Hummel still looked and felt like a whore, obscene white on his lips that Dave mockingly kissed off, and he was left against a piano he'd never be able to see the same, feeling weak and pathetic, and sure that someway, somehow, he could have done more.

* * *

Kurt allowed himself only fifteen minutes after Dave left the choir room before he numbly picked himself back up and stumbled to the waiting parking lot, noting the word 'FAG' emblazoned in bright red on its side for just a minute before he collapsed again, head coming forward to slam against the crimson obscenity as a dry sob erupted from his chest, and then, overwhelming his desperate attempts at restraint, a howl, hoarse and furious, tore free.

It filled the cool air, and lingered behind even after the shadows of echo had died into the passing breeze.

Piece by piece, he strung himself back together, jutting out his chin and straightening his back, rubbing tears from his eyes, the word "fine" playing in his head on one-track repeat.

Kurt climbed into his Navigator and removed some cover-up he'd bought recently, putting down his mirror so that he could see as he rubbed at the bruising on his neck until the marks appeared like a faded shadow, with only tiny hints of the purple and red peeking through when very closely examined.

He, then, rubbed a bit at his lips, nose wrinkling in disgust, and turned his key in the ignition.

Kurt arrived home at eight-thirteen p.m., and, eyes bleary, made his way inside.

"Finn? Puck? Where are you guys?"

And into the living room, where he promptly forgot how to breathe.

But…what?

"Dad? What are you doing home? You're not supposed to be back for another two days…Finn? Did you have something to do with this?"

"It was both of them, actually. They called me in, kiddo." His dad's voice was gruff, and Kurt subconsciously raised the palm of one hand to cover his neck while the other covered his mouth, all too aware under his father's scrutiny that he'd only just been even further defiled.

His dad had a way of seeing things, even when Kurt tried to hide them, and he was filled with a cold terror that his Dad would see this, too, somehow. Would just know that Kurt wasn't whole and strong and _clean_ anymore. And Kurt, sure as he was of his Dad's love, was constantly afraid of the day when he would do one strange thing too many, or be less than what his Dad had always wanted in a son in just one way too much, and that love would melt away into the same hatred or mere tolerance that the majority of people in this town gave him.

Burt, of course, did not detect his son's assaults, sexual or otherwise. What he did detect was that- as Finn and Puckerman had told him- something was very wrong.

So, he did all he could think to do and stood from his chair, moving quickly to his son, and wasted no time wrapping the stock still frame in his arms as tightly as he could, as if he could already feel the new distance Kurt was putting between them and thought holding them tight together this way could fix it, could bridge the strange gulf in their midst.

And Kurt, for his part, was frozen for just a second before relief and oasis washed over him and he found himself hugging his daddy back with all his might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song credit:  
> Kurt-- "Here Comes the Sun" by The Beatles


	15. Conflict of Interest

"Kurt, bud, what's going on with you, huh?" Burt Hummel murmured into his son's hair.

"What's this I'm hearing about you not eating and having panic attacks? Talk to me."

"Daddy," Kurt whispered and the sound was a rasp and a sob all in one, choked down with shame.

"Okay, okay. I'm here."

Burt began to rock the pair of them back and forth, back and forth, heels bouncing forward slightly as he pressed himself to his son, holding him tight. He'd never considered himself good at this sort of thing; hell, he was the first to admit that he was by no means the touchy-feely type. That had been all Elizabeth. But since his wife had first become sick when Kurt was eight, he'd slowly improved for the sake of his son. He considered himself pretty good at reading people, but especially reading Kurt.

He knew his boy.

His boy who had just called him Daddy. Called him it twice.

There wasn't a shred of discomfort or uncertainty in his mind as to what to do as he slowly rocked them together and murmured nonsense against his son's hair.

He caught the rasp in the choked word, too, but put it aside for later.

There was no doubting it now- something was very wrong. He'd have to call Carole and get her home, after Kurt was asleep.

The kid was so clearly exhausted that Burt suspected he wouldn't have long to wait. And, when Kurt was asleep, he'd also check his temperature, and probably look at his throat in case there was any swelling or something. His kid felt a little too warm and too destroyed in Burt's sure hold.

When Kurt was asleep, he'd make sure he was okay, and he'd get his wife home, and he'd make sure the teenager slept and ate and was taken care of. He'd find a way to smooth the worry and fear that was so wrong on the faces on Finn and his friend, just kids themselves and looking so, so unsure, though the latter in a strange guarded way Burt himself remembered from his own years.

Burt was here now. He was home. And he was determined to fix everything he'd found broken.

He had to; it was what he did.

And when it came to his son... His sons...

There was no room for failure.

* * *

It was like he'd blacked out and come to. The world had had the contrast turned further up with every passing moment, and then, David had seen the phone, and heard Azimio's voice, and everything had been sharpened to this point…The hues of reality changed.

But now they were back to what they'd been before, and all Dave was left with was guilt.

He just kept digging his hole deeper, and hurting more people, and especially Kurt, over and over.

Kurt deserved it, Dave reminded himself. But did he? And did his friends or family or..?

Yes.

If they didn't, anyway, what would that make Dave?

A Monster? Well, more of one than he was now, at least.

A monster freak that liked fucking guys and hurting people and he couldn't deny that, could he?

He'd loved it. There'd been a thrill to hurting Kurt this whole time, a thrill to seeing fear alight in eyes so usually frozen like ice, blank and arrogant, or warm and expressive. There was a flash of something less proper and pure, more primal and broken, and David lapped it up.

He wasn't the only one, though. So how wrong could that enjoyment be? It was the same pleasure he'd seen in the others, every time they threw a slushie or tossed someone in a dumpster, or sent someone crashing to the ground.

If he was a monster, then they were too.

Or, like he'd always thought, they were just normal, including him, even with his freaky gayness. Maybe they were all like that.

And Hummel was the only monster, the only freak. Most everyone hated him, didn't they? Or just didn't like him or whatever. So Dave really was doing a good thing, then. He was…

Maybe he was right? Mostly he was sure he was, but he had his moments of doubt.

Like now.

It would be so much easier if Kurt had never rubbed off on him, though.

Or it would be so much easier if everyone was mostly all gay in the first place, everyone in that godforsaken school, and then he would just be…fitting in, following the expectations, a part of the norm.

It would be so much easier if they were all dead.

"David," Paul Karofsky rapped his knuckles twice on the door, in rapid succession.

He was smiling.

David smiled back, but he was pretty sure it came out like a grimace.

God, what would his dad think? And his mom? If they ever knew…he couldn't stand it.

He really was the monster here, wasn't he? It would kill his parents.

But only after they'd killed him.

And that wouldn't even be for the gay thing, even though Dave knew they'd be disappointed. They'd kill him for all the other stuff, for what he was doing to the stupid school fag.

It was a little too close, probably, to what had happened to his mom when he was younger.

Stalking and almost rape, he thought. Dave had been thirteen at the time, and he'd looked it all up, torturing himself with the possibilities. And suppressing with all the horror and all the energy he could muster that awful twinge of interest in his gut when he read this one story… It had been the idea of power, Dave knew; having that type of control over someone had sounded terrifying, but almost a little enticing, nonetheless.

He remembered clearly the expressions of devastation, though. The way his mom had been so quiet...

His mother had once loved to sing, like all the kids in the stupid glee club did, and she'd become so quiet, and almost ghostly, over the course of the investigation. His dad had busied himself taking care of Dave and his old team, having retired from coaching when the attack first happened, but still being as invested as always in that world, if not more, and always adding more and more security measures to their house. Including even more guns. His dad liked hunting so he'd already had some, but then, of course, he'd gotten more and more and more (" _just in case"_ ), and David had been taught diligently how to use every one of them.

Even now, his dad would occasionally come home with another padlock or would go crazy about updating their security system. His mom spent almost all her time at work, or reading self-help books, or baking.

They would hate him so much, for so many things. Dave didn't know how he'd deal with that.

It'd be easier if he were dead too.

"You doing your homework?"

"Trying," Dave muttered, gesturing vaguely to where his composition book lay open on the desk.

This was exactly why he hated English. It made him think too damn much.

Dave much preferred math. It was so much simpler, so much more direct. No emotional crap, whatsoever. No delving into your subconscious, or roundabout explanations or any of that bullshit. He didn't need that stuff, especially not now. He needed math, where things were one way and that was it.

It helped that he was good at it, too.

"Ah," Paul said, wandering into the room and seating himself on the edge of Dave's bed.

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Not really," Dave snapped, then groaned. "I just hate this stupid class. That's all. Sorry."

"Okay," Paul said dubiously. "As long as that's really it. Just keep with it son. And here- Here's a twenty. Order yourself a pizza tonight, okay? My event should be done by midnight. So be in bed, eh? Oh, and no girls, David," his dad finished with a conspiratorial grin and wink, patting him heavily on the shoulder.

"Right," Dave muttered, waiting for the door to be shut and his father's footsteps to fade before standing up and turning to send his fist crashing into the bed.

Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe getting out his urges on Hummel wasn't going to get rid of them.

But what then?

He could try laying off the dude. Hell, maybe the experiences were making his urges stronger somehow. Could you catch the gay even more if you already had it?

David turned and sat hard on his bed, automatically pulling out his phone and going to Z's contact. He got as far as the text message screen before realizing what he was doing and throwing his phone to his bedspread angrily because, _hello, he couldn't do that. That was Azimio his best friend and he knew Dave_ and if he heard that he would also know the truth, automatically, the way Z had so many times since they'd met when they were six and Azimio James was just the new kid in first grade. And then Z would do what he always did and try to make things fit with what he wanted. He'd try to make Dave like girls, try to hook him up even more than he already did, and it would never work just like it already hadn't.

He was good at surprising people (though he'd been way better when they were kids), but on this Dave knew there'd be no surprise. Really, these days, Z was predictable in all kinds of ways, like all the other jocks at school, but still on the unique side, and, man, Dave really just didn't want to lose him, but at the same time he did, he really did… he wanted to kill him, almost, just because he knew that as one of Dave's best friends Z had the power to destroy him. And if he found out, he'd do exactly that.

So maybe laying off of Kurt was really the right thing.

Except he didn't want to, Dave thought angrily.

He liked Kurt. He _wanted_ Kurt.

Kurt did these _things_ , and he just kept drawing David in and making him want him. Now Dave was addicted and he didn't know how to stop anymore. He wanted more and less and he just

Was lost.

No more thinking, Dave decided, turning onto his stomach and grabbing his laptop to begin ordering his pizza.

It was all too hard and too complicated.

Still, in hope of eliminating at least a little of the guilt still pulling at his gut, he ended up on a site ordering girly flowers he figured Kurt was a girl enough, no matter what he claimed, to like, instead of his pizza. He could always microwave some pizza, anyhow, so at least this way he was doing something with the money his parents would probably appreciate- apologizing. …kind of.

He'd said once that he could make it good for Kurt, hadn't he? So, maybe, now that he'd made sure Kurt knew the consequences of being a suspicious idiot, Dave could go back to that. He might even get some ass out of it.

Except…no. He couldn't do that with Kurt, as much as he wanted to, at least not yet.

It was just too damn gay.

And Dave wasn't ready for that, or to be that.

* * *

"Are you going to tell me about those bruises on your neck?"

Kurt froze where he stood in the kitchen, eyes not moving from the glass of water shaking in his hands.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said stiffly.

"Don't give me that," came the gruff voice behind him. "You know exactly."

"Stop," Kurt said quietly.

"Do you realize how much shit you'd be in if your dad had seen?"

"Will you just shut your mouth Puckerman?" Kurt asked angrily, whirling to face his classmate.

"Who did that to you?" Puck asked, matching Kurt's fury, then overreaching it. "We'll pound their fucking face in, man."

"You won't be pounding anything," Kurt retorted scathingly. "Get out of my face, now, please," he sniffed slightly, jutting out his chin. "I'm thirsty, and would prefer to be alone."

"Your voice sounds off," Puck replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "And you've been being weird and having those panic deals. Tell me, Hummel. What the fuck is up?"

Kurt's unoccupied hand rose to skate over his throat, which convulsed painfully under his touch.

"My dad can't know," he told the floor, then again, directly to the football player this time, eyes cold like sleet, and intense as they hit. "My dad can't know, Puck."

Puck's hand rose to his Mohawk, frustration in every lock of his muscles.

"Someone has to," he said finally. "I only didn't tell your dad, because I figured the old man would have us making a police report before I got to get you some under the radar revenge."

Kurt swallowed and winced at the motion, quickly taking a swig of icy water in an effort to fend off the pulsating ache radiating up and down his sore throat, and the flesh over it.

When Kurt didn't reply, Puck growled, low and unhappy.

"Hummel. Come on."

"I'm not ready," Kurt said softly.

Puck's eyes further narrowed and steeled.

"Don't be such a goddamn pussy, Hummel! Fuck. Fine. You know what? You don't tell me, I'll tell your dad."

Kurt flinched.

"Don't you dare," he snapped. "Look, Mohawk, just stay out of my business alright?"

Puck tossed his head and snorted indignantly, the fingers on his hair clenching.

"It's fucking my business too, Kurt. It's all of ours. Do you realize how much you're freaking everyone out? Why do you think I'm still here?"

Kurt's jaw tightened.

"Oh, so that's it then? I'm so sorry I've been such a burden to you."

"Don't you dare fucking pull that shit," Puck replied tersely. "I am not the one victimizing you here, Hummel. Don't you fucking dare."

"Why not?" Kurt scoffed quietly. "It's not like you haven't before, right, Puck?"

Puck tensed even further, if such a thing were possible.

"I've changed," he said after a stiff pause, and Kurt nodded, brushing past him.

"Just don't tell my dad, Puckerman. Or Finn."

"Hummel, get back here," Puck said angrily, and not at all desperately, since desperation was for pussies.

He pulled open the basement door Kurt had slammed shut behind him and stormed down the stairs, sparing no glance for Finn, who was still somehow fast asleep on the floor, mouth open and limbs spread and tangled.

Puck jerked open the bathroom door, and Kurt's gaze snapped to him in the mirror.

"Do you mind?" he hissed, obviously outraged.

"Not at all," Puck came back, closing and locking the door behind him. "Tell me who the fuck it is."

Kurt's eyes closed a beat in the mirror, then snapped open once more, solid, unyielding crystal.

"I have to pee," he informed the jock, who shrugged.

"Piss away, Hummel," Puck said, still in front of the door. "I don't give three fucks what you want to do in here. Take a dump too, if you want. Neither of us is going anywhere until you give me at least something, alright Kurt? That's it. I'm sick of all of us going around you. No more. Answer. Now."

Kurt glared at him.

"No."

Puck nodded.

"Cool. So, Hummel. You wanna know what it's like to bang a chick?"

Kurt gaped at him, brow creasing.

"What?"

"I've banged loads, so I have a lot of stories," Puck informed Kurt with an almost solemn nod, and a wicked grin. "And since we're going to be in here all night…"

"You're kidding me," Kurt said sharply and Puck smiled toothily at him.

"Well, bras can be tricky if you're an amateur, but, of course, things like that come easy to the Puckasaurus. See what you wanna do-"

"Oh my God, stop now," Kurt groaned.

"Santana's bras are always really easy to get off," Puck informed him. "It's her jeans that are usually a bitch when she wears them. They're hella tight like yours. But her skirts? Man. They make her so easy to go down on, I swear. Same with the rest of the cheerios. It's like, the ultimate-"

"Out, out! Get out," Kurt whined, clenching his eyes tightly closed.

"But before you even start, you just take a big whiff. God, man, that's the best smell in the world. Usually. Some chicks smell kinda funky though… Like, you know that Brett guy? The stoner? His mom. Man did she smell-"

Kurt whimpered something indecipherable, face absolutely crimson at this point, and Puck paused, staring at him.

"Are you having a brain aneurysm, Hummel?"

"I said I'd tell you," Kurt said quietly, sinking down onto the ledge of his bathtub.

Puck's face immediately drained of humor.

He nodded, left hand back to palming over his Mohawk, while his right clenched at his side.

"Go ahead then."

Kurt took a shaky breath.

"Please don't tell anyone or do anything," he mumbled. "It's my problem okay?"

Puck shook his head.

"Just tell me already."

Kurt swallowed once more, spasmodically.

"There have been some altercations," he began quietly, and Puck groaned.

"Names, Kurt."

Kurt's eyes shifted up, then down. His hand rose to his throat, lids falling closed as something flashed behind them.

Fear rattled up.

And.

"I don't know them. I was jumped a couple times. Always blindfolded first somehow. I'm just not going those ways anymore."

Puck made an angry noise.

"You can't be fucking serious. Do you realize how messed up that is? That's like serial killer shit."

Kurt smiled weakly.

He _was_ an idiot, wasn't he?

But Dave would kill him.

And his dad was still sick.

And Kurt could handle it.

He had to survive. He had to get out of here with his name unmarred.

Anyone knowing would ruin everything for him in the future.

"Can I go now, Puck?"

Puck rolled his eyes.

"Whatever Hummel. But this isn't over, okay? I'll be your bodyguard or whatever if you need it. In a totally non-gay way."

Kurt nodded heavily.

"I'll think about it," he murmured, standing and moving around Puck, hand going around the knob.

He stayed for a moment, lingering in the silence, in the brief glimpse of opportunity fled. But not really fled, more like pushed away, pushed into an abyss. Chances were Kurt had just solidified his prison.

And why?

Because he was too weak to tell the truth.

Because he kept seeing Dave's gun. And feeling Dave's hands. Around his wrists. Around his legs. Around his penis. Around his throat. Everywhere.

And Kurt was weak, and it scared him, and he couldn't tell.

Besides, he didn't want his Daddy to know that he was a whore and that he was tainted and damaged and so many other bad, bad, horrible, awful things his dad would die if he knew of.

Kurt took his moment, then closed his eyes to it, and walked out the bathroom door.

* * *

"Santana, have you considered that perhaps convincing Brittany to cheat on her boyfriend isn't the best way to win her heart?"

"Win her heart?" Santana sneered into the phone, rolling onto her stomach in bed and rolling her eyes at her cell. "What do you think this is, Little House on the Prairie? I'm not no Laura Ingalls, honey."

Blaine stifled a laugh.

"How much of that show have you seen?"

Santana scowled.

"That's not important."

"Right."

"Watch yourself Curly," Santana warned. "Ah, fuck. Brit's doing it again."

"What's she doing?" Blaine asked in a sigh, and Santana made a sound of frustration.

"She's started texting me while she's having sex or making out with her vessel of immobile sperm."

"So, her boyfriend, you mean."

"Same thing. Like I need to know that shit."

"So…have you seen Kurt?"

"Why?" Santana asked irritably. "Is the porcelain queen of bitch-land still freezing you out?"

"Kurt's not like that and you know I didn't mean it that way," Blaine said levelly. "I'm just worried about him."

"Because he's freezing you out, hobbit. Come on, let's be real here. Queenie's found someone else and you're jealous. This was all already established. He found someone else and ditched you, and you don't want to believe it."

"Or," Blaine replied patiently, "I'm right, and I am, and you don't want to believe me. Look, Santana, you and I both know you care about Kurt, just as you care about your other Glee-mates, and just as we both know you have feelings for Brittany. And I think, maybe, you're just insisting that everyone else is the bad guy because you don't want to deal with the fact that things really aren't how you want them, with Brittany, and with Glee, and with Kurt."

"Oh, who are you? Dr. Phil?"

"I'm just saying," Blaine sighed. "Sometimes you've got to-"

"Have courage?" Santana asked snidely.

Blaine smiled on his end.

"Yes. Exactly. Have courage. Sometimes you've got to have courage and just face what it is you're denying, head-on."

"You're like a fucking walking fortune-cookie, you know that?"

"That's what David's always saying," Blaine affirmed. "But people like fortune cookies for a reason, don't they?"

"Yeah. Know why? It's 'cause when they get sappy and drive you crazy, you can eat them."

"Perhaps, but here that would be called Cannibalism, Santana, and I don't think that's a rode either of us want you going down. Ah, Wes just texted me. He's calling an emergency Warblers meeting. It looks like somebody stole his gavel again. I've got to go. Try talking to Kurt again please? But without the insults?"

"I keep it real," Santana defended, and Blaine rolled his eyes.

"No, you keep it safe."

"I don't need Courage, Curly. If you text that word to me one more time…"

"I'll change the word then. Talk to Kurt! Bye!"

Santana clicked her phone shut, then groaned.

"Goddammit, Brit, stop with the pictures!"

* * *

Will Schuester grinned at the class and rapped his pointer twice on the board at the front of the word bearing 'REGIONALS' sprawled across it in enthusiastic all-caps.

"Regionals," he reiterated, his smile bordering on manic, "is right around the corner."

"Or it's three months away," Artie muttered into his bow-tie.

Tina and Kate snickered.

"And that means we have got to start getting ready," Schue continued.

"Yay," Quinn muttered sarcastically.

"Now, in the spirit of getting ready for competition, I was going to have you all partner up… but then I realized we actually have an odd number of members! So! I'm bringing back an old friend I bet you'll all enjoy!"

The class as a whole exchanged worried glances.

Kurt groaned into his scarf.

It better not be…

"The Hat of Fate!"

"What's the-"

"Hell to the no! Mr. Schuester, do you even remember how much drama that hat caused?"

"Well, hey, that was last year, Mercedes," Schuster grinned. "And we have two new members, now. Seems to me like high time we give this bad boy another go."

"Gay," Puck coughed.

Kurt didn't even bother to throw him a glare.

"Mr. Schue, if I may, I don't quite see how this will solve our problem of having an odd number anyway, and I'm sure there's a far better solution…" Kurt trailed off, taking in his teacher's expression, and then sighed. "Never mind."

"Kurt, trust me. This is just what we need," Mr. Schuester said pointedly. "Alright, guys. Kurt! Since you were so ready to express doubt, step up to the plate!"

Kurt wrinkled his nose, but stood slowly and stepped down the rows toward Mr. Schue and his hat.

He dipped his hand in reluctantly and withdrew a paper.

"…Sam," Kurt read aloud, already feeling awkward. He chanced a glance at Finn, whose face had paled and mouth fallen half-open.

Sam laughed.

"Go figure. Guess we're finally doing that duet, huh Kurt?"

"…Sure."

Kurt handed his slip back to Mr. Schuester, who gestured for him to resume his seat, and Kurt did so quickly, making sure to avoid looking at the piano as he passed it, though the sensation of it behind him still managed to momentarily steal his breath. He took out his iPod with shaking fingers and began scrolling through to find potential songs to present to Sam.

That didn't have piano in them, if possible.

"Quinn! Come on down!"

Moments later, Quinn's affronted voice rang out: "Rachel! Mr. Schuester, this has got to be a joke!"

"Sorry Quinn, the hat's decided. Alright, Finn, pick your poison."

Quinn's dismay came off her in waves.

Kurt's stomach flipped.

Mr. Schuester was clearly an idiot. They were only two pairings in and already the tension in the choir room had about tripled.

And there was no way he was going to be able to get Sam on board with Beyonce, was there?

Maybe… Too much piano. Next.

"Tina," Finn's voice smiled. "We'll be awesome. I mean, last year you freaked me out a little at first, but you're really super cool now. We've totally got this."

"Gee, thanks Finn" Tina replied sarcastically.

"Kate, come on and get your partner's name." Already Schue's excitement seemed to be wearing thin.

Kurt stared at his garage playlist, unsure whether or not he could force himself to truly consider doing something of that nature after last year's debacle.

He glanced up vaguely at the sound of Kate the Untalented's exasperated chuckle before she read aloud Brittany's name and went to join the blond cheerio with a resigned shrug, then watched Mike pop-and-lock his way to a laughing Mercedes after reading her name off.

"And three were left," Schue said ominously. Alright guys, here's how this will work. Santana, you'll be drawing between Artie and Puck." Santana's nostrils flared, and her lips tightly pursed as she fixed the hat with a baleful glower. "And the last man left will get his choice of groups. Sound good?"

"No," Santana snapped. "Why can't you just pair up the fools? Puck and Wheelchair are actually friends now or whatever."

"I see way too much of him these days, you kidding?" Puck asked, shaking his head. "Artie's been giving me some classified bad-ass-istance, and neither of us want to see more of each other."

"I don't know, yo," Artie spoke up, twitching a bit. "You're a far better choice than Santana. No offense."

"Really? Cause that seemed pretty offensive."

Kurt rolled his eyes, stroking absentmindedly at the scarf around his throat.

"Guys! Santana, choose, before I choose for you?"

"Can't I just vocally masturbate like the Queen did?"

"Santana!"

"Whatever," Santana grumbled, rising and stalking over to Mr. Schue and his hat.

"All I know is it better not be- you have got to be shitting me. I refuse."

"So! Artie is your partner," Mr. Schue announced, and both winced at the proclamation.

Santana looked livid.

"La puta madre," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. "Me cago en ti, silla de ruedas es pendejo. Cosas malas vosotros bajaréis! "

"Santana, I'm the Spanish teacher," Mr. Schuester said angrily. "You think I don't understand what you're saying? You know, I'm disappointed in the attitude I'm seeing here! I thought you guys wanted to make it to Nationals this year, but we have to get past regionals first!"

Santana rolled her eyes.

"You think that's bad? That's just what I've picked up from the streets. You know where? Lima Heights Adjacent, which is-"

"You also get it from the soap operas, Sanny," Brittany interrupted, frowning. "Remember, you were saying-"

"Britt!"

Brittany stopped, frowning again.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No, Brittany," Mr. Schuster spoke up. "We still need to place Puck now, so Santana if you'd just…"

Santana humph-ed petulantly, but retreated back to her seat. Artie adjusted his glasses nervously.

The air crackled in the choir room.

Puck didn't even need to think about it, though, not after all that had happened recently.

"I think I'm gonna chill with my boys Sam and Kurt, if that's cool Mr. Schue."

Mr. Schuester grinned again.

"That's great. Alright, all set! Now, I know we have Christmas break starting next week, so what I'd like you all to do is spend this week starting to search, and we'll use class time to either work on that or have some fun before vacation. But! While you're gone, I'd like you to get with your partner or partners and start working. When you get back we'll spend one more week on this assignment before everyone's presentations start. Sound good?...Brittany?"

"For Christmas can we get a tree and presents for the choir room?"

Schuester paused a moment, then sighed.

"Alright. Show of hands for this week doing Christmas and-"

Thirteen hands were instantly in the air. Mr. Schue nodded.

"Alright it's settled then! This week Glee goes full Santa! Then after break you'll start your assignment, and in a little under a month we'll present. This will be good guys!"

The bell rang.

* * *

"David. What do you want?"

"I was giving you some time after what happened," Dave said in a rush, then sighed. "I was trying to be nice. Did you get the flowers?"

Yes, he had. And then he'd "accidentally" lit them on fire in a fit of panicked rage that even Kurt could in no way explain. Kurt swallowed nervously, making sure the barbs that wanted to rise up his throat like bile didn't escape.

He could always insult Rachel's outfit when he saw her and Finn later. Ever since Carole had returned and promptly scolded Finn into apologizing to Rachel they'd gotten back together. They were supposed to go romantic tree-shopping later, which Kurt was pretty sure was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.

Of course, he was also just a little green with envy. Maybe. If it was possible to be jealous of the ever-insane courtship that was Finchel.

At least Puck had finally gone home the night after Carole returned. Not that it much mattered, since Kurt would apparently have to spend at least a large portion of his break with the self-proclaimed Lima badass. Thankfully, since David, Puck had completely ceased to scare him.

"Yeah," Kurt answered distantly, fiddling with the scarf he'd wrapped his still bruised neck in that morning. "They were nice. Thank you."

They both heard the eerie emptiness in his voice, but neither was willing to focus on it.

"I didn't want to have to do it," Dave said, reasoning. "But you had to understand."

"Well, I get it now. Thank you," Kurt retorted, his voice bearing the slightest edge as he began, but back to barren as the platitude was reiterated.

David nodded, jamming his hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket, and glanced vaguely at the door to the janitor's closet they were in.

It was unlocked.

Kurt placed a finger gingerly against the wall, wrinkling his nose.

"It really should be cleaned up in here."

Dave moved forward fast, pressing his lips against Kurt's, molding their bodies together. Kurt squirmed back ever so slightly, hand curling into a hard fist against the wall, but didn't otherwise struggle.

He barely flinched as one rough hand wormed its way to the button of his jeans, but did shrug back when Dave's hand fluttered absentmindedly towards his throat, a gasp escaping him.

His eyes squeezed shut, a tremble beginning to seize at his hands, one on the wall, the other clutched around his middle like a barrier. His breath hitched again, and Dave scowled.

"What are you doing?"

Kurt shook his head numbly, blinking rapidly.

"No…"

"No, what?" Dave sighed. "Look, I thought we've been over this, Hummel."

Kurt swallowed again, still trying to blink away the strange veil that had fallen over his eyes, unsure why it was there aside from the small voice reminding him of his recent encounters with panic-attacks. But there was no reason for him to be freaking out if there was no gun and there wasn't, so.

Kurt's arm contorted against the wall and he reeled it in with great effort, forming numbers through the mist, yelling at himself to be calm, because he knew he should be and couldn't fathom why he wasn't. At this point, a little kissing and fondling, while still revolting and filthy, was…not a big deal, or, Kurt thought, shouldn't be. Not when less than a week ago he'd been forced to deliver his first blow job.

Dave's hand closing hard around his elbow, grip bruising, somehow dragged Kurt back to Earth.

His breathing slowly began to level out.

"I'm sorry," he said honestly when he'd regained his voice. "I-I don't know what that was…"

Dave paused, then shrugged heavily.

"Look, I want to make out, alright? And be sucked off. We have two days left before break, and my family saved up enough to go to North Carolina and see my grandma and grandpa, so I won't be able to see you until two days after school starts again. So, before I go, I think I deserve to be satisfied without you being a pussy. I thought you were done being stupid, Hummel."

"I'm sorry," Kurt repeated, though the words were a little less true now.

He was going to have two weeks free.

Of course he'd have to deal with Sam and Puck, but…

He'd be free.

He needed that.

He'd do anything for that.

Except this.

If Dave was leaving, could he do anything to Kurt? Not if…

Kurt had to tell him no. He could just tell him no, and it would all be fine, and…

The hand shoved past his waistband again, and the word 'no' was there, it was there, it was…but it wasn't. It wasn't there. It was caught. Caged in the dry, injured confines of Kurt's throat, beneath solemn bruises and angry imprints of knuckles digging in.

That was okay, though, too, Kurt told himself, for the first time since the incident tears pulling from beneath his eyelids.

He'd just do what he'd been doing, then, and survive, right?

If Artie could start to walk for Brittany's belief in Santa Claus during the pre-Christmas break Christmas, Kurt Hummel could survive for the sake of that bit of freedom… He could take anything, couldn't he?

…

Kurt honestly just didn't know anymore. He took a deep breath, though, closed his eyes one more time, and tried desperately to keep his thoughts on tomorrow.


	16. Playing Chicken

Teachers' voices never droned more than they did in the first few days back from a break, and Kurt found this was even more true when joined with the knowledge of it being his last day of freedom before David returned.

He buzzed in and out of focus, his pencil tapping out the Morse code for SOS over and over again on the surface of his desk, barely flinching as a wad of paper made contact with his back, and then, moments later, yet another bounced off the back of his arm.

"Fag," a taunting whisper called the vulgarity like it was his name, catching his attention by the barest of its threads.

Kurt's eyes moved slowly from his paper.

The [teacher](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/16/Vibrato) had left the room. He didn't remember that happening…

"I hear you've got a boytoy now, Nancy."

"Yeah. Man that shit is sick. Keep it away, Hummel, a'ight? I don't want to see that perverted shit happening in my own damn front yard. This is our town. It's not a place for homos."

Kurt rolled his eyes, tapping out a pattern with his eraser now.

"I don't want no HIV."

"Syphilis."

"Gonorrhea."

"Herpes!"

Several kids were now snickering quietly, muttering the names of various STDs, with the occasional of his peers piping up something about immaturity, but otherwise silent.

Kurt's chin, still, remained firmly pointed down, the laughing muted in his ears.

He sneezed abruptly and muffled it thoughtlessly against his sleeve before remembering himself.

He stared at the now-ruined garment in dull horror.

What had happened to him?

* * *

It was a new year and Kurt Hummel was writing his resolutions.

Trying to, that was.

And, technically, it wasn't actually the new year, not yet anyway. It was the eve.

Still, Kurt had always loved the holidays- a perfect excuse to go all out with decorating schemes without having to [deal with](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/16/Vibrato) as much backlash or perfunctory looks of disapproval.

This year, he was determined, would be no exception. He'd make sure of it, his recent…issues…be damned. Kurt Hummel might be a little more broken, but he was no less fierce. Or at least that was what he sought to prove now, pen in hand, beaming lights still everywhere from Christmas, but with colors changed to more appropriately reflect on the advent of 2011.

The problem was that everything that came to mind slipped from it again soon after, a ghost of prior dreams and now-meaningless stipulations. And the main word throbbing in his head was enough to make him ball his fists and crumple the paper and unravel it three times, unwilling to put down on paper the pathetic single-minded goal he'd spent the last few months, if not years, developing.

Finally, though, he forced his fingers to move, and, swallowing, released the throbbing word.

It was so unglamorous. So much less than he'd wanted for himself. But it was all he had, anyway, wasn't it. Still, Kurt crumbled the paper again, this time throwing it away from himself then gluing his face into a smile, walking away from the rumpled scrawl of "Survival".

* * *

"This is not going to work," Quinn said, flipping another page of Eclipse with unnecessary force.

Rachel toyed with the wine glass held loosely in her hand, watching the juicey-juice within move and reflect light before taking a prim, glamorous sip.

"On the contrary, while your voice is very obviously untrained next to my own polished finesse, and you could stand to sing through your nose a little less than you do, as well as refine your power more, you're actually a good singer, Quinn, and I do think our voices have the potential to blend well together."

Quinn stared up at her a moment, licking her lips then clenching her teeth tight.

"Seriously. Why is it that every time you open your big mouth I get the uncontrollable urge to punch something? Preferably your weird-singing face."

Her gaze returned to her book and Rachel rolled her eyes, leaning forward slightly to place her glass on her desk.

"Honestly Quinn, your propensity toward violence makes sense, given what you went through last year-"

"Here we go again…"

"-And I understand that you might have developed some form of Postpartum depression. It's very common with young mothers, especially since Beth has my mom instead of you-"

Quinn glowered down at Eclipse.

"Shut up, man hands."

"-, but I'm a firm believer in fighting only through song, and you said already that you refused to do Broadway… Are you really sure about that decision? I truly believe our potential rendition of Memory from Cats would be, as they say, off the hook."

Quinn's eyes closed momentarily, a groan escaping her lips.

"Please stop talking."

"I'll take that as a no, then," Rachel sighed. "Okay, new idea! What do you think of 90s pop? We can bring everyone back with the nostalgia, and it's fun! I'm pretty sure I have some Spice Girls backing tracks."

Quinn raised an eyebrow, still reading, and gave a monotonous: "No."

"You don't like the Spice Girls?"

Quinn rolled her eyes in reply and Rachel pursed her lips.

"Fine. What would you suggest instead then?"

A pause, before:

"Cutting off Mr. Schue's head maybe? Or calling back his crazy ex-wife," Quinn said vaguely, with an edge of irritation.

"I meant for a song," Rachel snapped back, and Quinn glanced at her impassively as she flipped another page.

"How about Airplanes by BOB?"

"Well, I have been working on my rapping… If I do say so myself, my Little-Wayne covers are the best by far of any by a young, white female on myspace or youtube. Can you rap at all? I mean, no offense, but I don't know that your voice really lends itself to that kind of versatility, and I was hoping to take all of Haley Williams' parts of the song… Maybe we can both sing those, and then I can also cover Little Wayne's verses. That might work."

Quinn's lip curled irritably and she closed the book over her index finger.

"You can't even say Lil' Wayne right. Your name is not Eminem, man-hands."

Rachel frowned.

"My skill with rap may not be as high as that with singing—"

Quinn's eyes narrowed.

"I'm at a Jacob part and want to focus, so will you please stop talking?"

"Why would that matter? Edward's better, anyway. Airplanes or no?"

"Excuse me?"

Rachel paused scrolling through her iPod to look up at Quinn.

"Yes?"

"Edward is in no way better than Jacob," Quinn retorted, flushing, and Rachel laughed.

"He's better in every way actually. Jacob's a dog. How can you dislike Edward? He's got such a good soul, and he struggles so much more… The conflict of head versus heart."

Quinn scowled.

"We're not doing this. The Edward versus Jacob debate is far too played out and I, if only, do not look like a thirteen year old, though with the way you dress and your tantrums every day you might be able to pull it off. Just choose a damn song Rachel. And Jacob is better."

Rachel humph-ed, but didn't refute the assertion, swiping her thumb swiftly over the screen of her iPod once more.

"We've reached Disney soundtracks now," she informed Quinn. "And, since you already rejected the Spice Girls, I suppose you have no interest in something that even further encapsulates our youth…"

Quinn stared at Rachel for a long moment, before slowly, carefully saying: "I loved Disney when I was younger… My dad never failed to- to make me believe I really was a princess. When I first found out I was…I wanted… Disney sounds good actually."

Rachel smiled gently at her, then, excitement coming into her eyes.

"I have the perfect idea then…"

* * *

Sam Evans had thought he'd hate Lima when he first moved here. He'd been stuck on this idea of surviving and then getting out as soon as he possibly could.

But then New Directions had performed Empire State of Mind in the courtyard and his foot was tapping and Finn saw, and now it was almost five months later and he was at Finn and Kurt's house and he was really, really glad that he'd moved here because he kinda sorta loved this second family he'd made.

He loved them- which was why he was worried like crazy as he strummed his guitar, Puck doing the same across from him, a wound-up looking Kurt across from them, pulling together their loose circle.

"What's with all the crumpled papers?" Sam asked finally, and Kurt gave him a cross look, his lips forming a churlish pout.

"I was decorating…"

"With…New Years Resolution lists?" Sam asked, picking up a page from nearby and unfurling it, managing only to read the title before Kurt snatched it away.

"Usually I clean up before anyone comes over, but, of course, neither of you texted or called."

"Puck's decision, not mine," Sam defended absently. "Your throat sore? You're rubbing it a lot."

Kurt's blue eyes narrowed.

"Was that some sort of innuendo, because-"

"Sheesh," Puck interrupted, setting aside his guitar to give Kurt a look of annoyance. "Will you stop being such a bitch for once?"

Kurt looked away, nails picking absently at his knees.

"Do you guys have any thoughts on the song or not?"

* * *

Kurt rubbed a palm distractedly over his forehead, head burning. He couldn't focus on anything.

"What's wrong with you?" Tina hissed from next to him, concern rippling her forehead. "Kurt?"

Kurt just shook his head, slouching despite himself.

He wished he could still say he didn't know.

David would be back the day after tomorrow.

His head sank down to the surface of his desk. Nowhere else to go.

* * *

"Alright, Transformer, let's do this."

Artie scowled.

"Don't talk to me that way, Santana."

He was in a bad mood from having to do this assignment with her in the first place, and with her and Britt having spent more and more time together… He honestly hated Santana right now.

Santana rolled her eyes, a hand landing on her hips.

"Oh, gee, sorry Steven Hawking. I didn't realize you were so sensitive. Don't tell me it's your time of the month…You gonna wheel yourself into a corner and go all emo on me, roller derby?

Artie looked away from her, arms sliding over his chest.

"Back off alright? Let's just get through this so we can head to Kurt's party."

"Sorry, no. Unless you feel like letting me entertain myself instead by setting your legs on fire and seeing how long it takes for you to feel it."

"Look, we both know you're just jealous that I'm the one with Brittany instead of you, so-"

"Excuse me? What was that Legless? Me, jealous of you?" She gave him a once over, lip curling. Her eyes were dark with anger and spite.

Artie flinched slightly, Santana's dark irises rising to meet his again, searing.

Artie pushed up his glasses, though, and looked right back.

Santana's smirk faded.

"Of the two of us, who do you think could really stand to lose her?" she asked heavily.

Artie almost wanted to feel for her, but he refused. Not now. Not when she was trying to take the girl who may be his last chance for-

"You," Artie retorted vehemently. "You could. Not me."

Santana scowled.

"You really think that, huh, Professor X?"

"Santana," he took a deep breath. Her eyes were somewhere above his head now, unwilling to listen. Whatever. He didn't care. This needed said. "You're hot, okay? You're hot and you're popular and your legs work-"

"I don't remember accepting an invitation to your pity party, Abrams."

"And I'm just me," Artie finished anyway, voice harder than it had been in a while, and a little pleading.

"Before her, my existence at this school was miserable at best, okay? You don't know what it's like, Santana. Glee was the only good part of my day, mostly. Glee and lunch, and clubs when I could make them. But I almost never had anyone when the school day was over, or during the weekends. Now I have plans two or three days a week on average."

"God, do you know how to shut up?" Santana snapped, her entire face darkening and tightening as he went on.

"I know you're a bitch- but I don't want to go back to being the nothing that I was…"

Santana's gaze was very definitely somewhere else and razor-sharp.

"Oh, yeah? Neither do I. What a coincidence."

Artie watched her for a moment, then looked away as well, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

"Songs."

"Yeah, whatever. Like Shuester will ever get around to us anyway. Let's just blow it off."

Artie shook his head.

"I actually do my assignments, Santana."

She rolled her eyes.

"Whatever. Fine. What do you want to do then, Slim Shady? More wannabe rap?"

Artie looked at her for a long moment.

Then:

"I have an idea."

"Oh, I'm so excited," Santana said mockingly, and Artie ignored her in favor of pulling out his smart phone.

And, quietly, more to himself, he added, "You should be." Because while his feelings were ambiguous as they could be, he could already feel himself pulling towards this one song for a reason he couldn't quite establish mentally. All he knew, and the dread in him was certainly rising with the fall of this sense…- was that this would probably please Santana very much.

* * *

"Kurt, I want to talk to you about something."

It was Sam. Artie and Puck were each at his side, Puck's eyes on his shoes.

Kurt stared at them nervously.

"Can't it wait? We have Glee today anyway…"

"No."

Kurt pursed his lips, straightening.

"Some of us are hungry."

"Please," Puck spoke up, half-laughing, half-snarling. "You eat so little that we spent the last month strongly suspecting you of bulimia or manorexia or whatever that shit is."

Kurt scowled, hackles up, and brought his messenger bag to his chest.

"You _do_ like to eat though."

"There are higher priorities," Artie said, and he sounded angry.

Artie almost never sounded angry.

Kurt swallowed, and forced a shrug.

"What do you want?"

There was silence, and then they all began dragging him toward the choir-room, and Kurt only went along because the second hands closed over his wrist his mind went just a little fuzzy and his memories began surging past the gates he'd been keeping them behind and if he were to struggle then not only would it look completely suspicious but it would just make this even more like…

Like….

He flexed his hands, balling them into fists, working to at least channel his fast breathing into a more angry sound.

He was released in the choir room, Sam's hand on his shoulder as he sat down, bringing Kurt down with him effortlessly.

"Now, can I know what's going on?" he demanded, sounding more angry than he felt, which was easy since he was mostly just…empty. Scared. It was a new year- he'd wanted himself back, but all he'd done was lose himself more.

To make up for it, Kurt went on: "Other than ruin my shirt. This is Dior, you ingrates."

Artie grinned a moment, then the expression firmed once more.

Sam cleared his throat and withdrew his hand, but tugged a little on Kurt's apparently Dior shirt anyway (Kurt had said that they'd already ruined it, hadn't he?), and Kurt turned toward him expectantly.

But it was Puck who talked first, though Sam who held his gaze.

"I got drunk at your party," he informed Kurt. "And it was the talkative kind of drunk."

Sam held his gaze.

Artie was angry.

The world bottomed out.

* * *

The party was approved quickly by Burt and Carole, who wanted to do the romantic thing for the beginning of their first new year as husband and wife but didn't want to leave their kids alone to watch the ball drop and celebrate the advent of 2011. Especially Kurt.

They were both worried.

Which was part of why all of New Directions was coming over tonight and then some (some being the one guest a girl named Santana had asked about, informing them that it would be a surprise for Kurt).

Neither had any doubt that their house would be a mess by the time they got back. In fact, they couldn't wait to see it.

It was strange, wasn't it- how much one could crave to see the evidence of chaos? But, more than that, Burt and Carole had silently agreed that the significance of having a clean house after a party with 12+ people would have only one clear meaning:

There was something really, really wrong.

Something Glee couldn't fix, and neither could they.

And that meant getting outside help.

Namely, therapy.

Kurt would not be pleased.

And Finn, Carole told Burt with a laugh, voice just a little too sure, would probably kick a chair. At least Kurt might enjoy the home-improvement shopping.

Burt worried privately that his son didn't seem to enjoy much of anything these days.

* * *

"Dude this party rocks," Finn called out, and Puck leaned against him, laughing.

"When's Santana getting here? I want to see her and Rachel cat fight again. Hey Rachel! Meow!"

Rachel rolled her eyes, muttering "ha ha" in Puck's direction.

Finn pulled free from Puck and wrapped his arms instead around his girlfriend, kissing her deeply and a little sloppily.

Puck groaned.

"Man, I need to get some. This is so lame. Hey Quinn! I actually have condoms tonight, and can back it up, so…!"

Quinn wrinkled her nose and brushed him off, going to sit beside her boyfriend again, along with Mercedes, Tina, and Mike.

Kurt was sitting on the couch, staring at his new paper and the empty list.

It still needed finished…

* * *

"Why didn't you tell us you were being jumped?"

"That's it, we're never gonna leave you alone again!"

Mike, who had entered the room just as the interrogation started, immediately called out an indignant: "This is bullshit!"

"Kurt, why aren't you telling us this stuff? And your dad? You know whoever these guys are, you can't handle them by yourself, yo!"

"I've totally got a blowtorch at home."

Kurt closed his eyes.

* * *

Kurt watched the clock, heart in his throat.

His phone was filled with unanswered texts.

"Mr. Hummel, the bell rang. The day is over."

He was done.

* * *

In North Carolina, David was furious.

He was being ignored.

And he'd never been so angry in his life.

Kurt would fucking pay.

* * *

"Seriously everyone's here on time? How lame are you people?"

"It's better that way, Santana," a voice laughed.

Kurt looked up in horror.

It was Blaine.

He abandoned the list and walked quickly upstairs before anyone could see him.

Done.

* * *

The house was clean.

* * *

Finn tried to do right by his step-brother. He really did.

Which was why, when Blaine asked where Kurt's room was on the night of the party, he immediately pointed the way, despite his misgivings about the idea of Kurt being with a guy who was also gay alone in his room. He was pretty sure that broke some important house rules or something… Maybe. Or maybe he was being stupid. Either way, though, he'd been alone enough times with Rachel. And with Brittany and Quinn and Santana and Tina and all the other girls enough, and he pretty much thought all of them were at least kinda hot, if not entirely his type.

Finn got a lot of shit about his intellect or whatever, but he really did try.

And he really, really cared. Especially about Kurt. They were brothers.

And he had always felt better after he spent some time with Rachel, even before he and Rachel were dating, when he'd still been with Quinn and stuff. So, however it worked out between Blaine and Kurt, he was pretty sure he was doing the right thing.

He just wished he knew who was messing with his brother.

He sighed, leaving Blaine to Kurt's bedroom door and then running back down the stairs for the hell of it.

"Yo, Finn, we need more beer," Puck called out and Finn grinned. "On it!"

He and Puck had developed a drinking game and were both well on their way to wasted, since it involved drinking any time Santana was a bitch during the party, any time Rachel (who he _loved_ , but still) went on a rant that involved the words star-power, and any time Quinn was a major hypocrite. Anytime Mercedes went ghetto, and then bounced before anyone could blink right back to a normal conversation, as well as any time Tina mentioned Mike's abs, were also included.

Needless to say, they fully intended to get rip-roaring drunk to bring in the new year.

The other guys had talked about drinking, but decided that it'd be funnier to get tipsy at most, since they wanted to see the antics of "Fuck" ("If we fucked, we'd be called 'Fuck'. We'd also be called fags, though, so I'm sticking with pussy, but that's fucking awesome right? High five!" "Puck, are you drunk already? Did you start without me?").

Finn went to grab more beer.

Puck was talkative when he was drunk, and said the funniest shit. Finn, personally, couldn't wait.

"Blaine, what are you doing here?"

Kurt's voice was dull.

Blaine walked forward immediately and dropped down onto the bed beside him.

"Is this about the Warblers making me not talk to you for a couple weeks, Kurt? Is that why you're ignoring me?"

Kurt scowled.

"Not everything is about you."

"Then what is it about?"

Blaine sounded honestly curious, and a little hurt. Kurt shook his head on his pillow.

"It's not important. Why don't we talk about you? Anything interesting happen in your life?"

"Well, my best friend started ignoring me," Blaine replied casually.

Silence.

Then: "…Don't be like that," Kurt murmured, and Blaine looked over at him very seriously.

"Don't be like that yourself, and maybe I won't."

Kurt sighed, the air shuddering.

"I'm sorry," he murmured finally.

Blaine turned onto his side to eye Kurt's prone form very seriously, eyes dark, throat bobbing.

"Don't be. Just stop doing it."

Kurt didn't reply, and after a moment Blaine rolled back to his prior position, eyes closing.

"Do you want me to give up?"

"…No."

"Well then what do you want me to do, Kurt?" The words came out angry, then tired. "Everyone's worried."

"They shouldn't be," Kurt retorted hotly, and Blaine sat up quickly, turning to stare fiercely at him. "I'm fine."

"No, Kurt, you're not. And maybe if you'd stop fucking pushing people away all the time we could help you. Whatever's going on, you're not stuck."

With that, Blaine pulled himself up and strode back toward the party.

Behind him, Kurt lay silent and stared sightlessly at the ceiling.

* * *

Blaine had to be wrong.

Kurt was stuck.

He was beyond stuck.

And it was all his own fault, too. He'd brought it on himself. He'd asked for it. And even if he did say no, David had a gun. All the courage in the world couldn't stop a bullet.

Kurt was tempted to skip Glee, for the first time in mostly ever. On purpose, that was. The other times had all been unintentional, but this time… Well, he just couldn't stop thinking that singing a song couldn't fix that.

Its ability to had been taken right along with Kurt's ability to touch the keys of a piano and not feel completely and utterly sick to his stomach.

Dave would be home in one day.

* * *

Brittany S. Pierce was a lot of things.

Smart was supposed to not be one of them. After all, how many people had called her stupid? And how many times?

But there were things even she could see and understand, and one of those was that Kurt was being like a hurt porcupine.

They were cute animals, but they hurt you so they could keep themselves safe. Santana said that was called something that Brittany didn't much remember, since soon after that they'd done some stuff that was pretty distracting.

But she'd come across one once, an injured porcupine that stabbed her in the hand with its quills as she tried to help. And Kurt these days always seemed just like that.

She'd helped the porcupine anyways, though Santana had wanted to kill it and said it was wild. But Santana could be like a porcupine too, which was why she cared so much how Kurt was acting. And Artie, too. Brittany's favorite animal might be cats, but porcupines were a close second.

She just wished Kurt and Santana and Artie would stop distracting everyone with their quills.

But especially Kurt, because he was starting to scare her.

Artie's hand was in hers, and Sanny's were tangled in her hair, despite a cutting remark she'd aimed at Brittany's boyfriend.

Brittany liked having Artie as a boyfriend. He was really great, and totally not a robot, which was nice. She liked being warm, and Artie did that. Santana did too, but she also could and had made Brittany feel cold. Besides, she didn't want to hurt Artie ever.

They might be the porcupines, but not her.

Brittany liked to think of herself as more of a dolphin that had low-gay water, so that she was only half as much as the other dolphins, but definitely not a shark, like Puck was.

Singing hadn't worked to calm the real porcupine down, just like it wasn't enough for Kurt, Brittany thought, spacing off. She'd had to talk to the porcupine about all sorts of things and poke and prod him about his quills in search of whatever was wrong.

Brittany wanted to explain this to her fellow Glee club members, but… she just really didn't want to again be called stupid.

So she watched Artie and Santana instead, wondering if she'd at least poked and prodded them enough that they'd stop hitting each other with quills. She doubted it.

Unfortunately, Brittany was pretty sure that something needed to happen, needed to come to its head, for that to ever anywhere near stop.

Same with Kurt probably, too.

It was probably the only time, thinking that, that Brittany ever actually hoped that she was just being stupid after all.

Her porcupine had died.

"Britt," Artie murmured.

His eyes were dark, but avoiding hers. Though she couldn't see it, Brittany knew Santana's gaze had snapped over.

"What is it, Artie?"

"Can we talk after Glee?" he asked, and Brittany smiled and nodded, though she didn't really want to do either. Santana had always said those were bad words, and Brittany knew what they usually meant. But this was Artie, so maybe it was an exemption or something, like with credit cards.

"Sure," she told him, grinning quietly, and Artie grimaced a little like he was trying to smile himself.

"Great."

Why couldn't she have been surrounded by friends that acted like monkeys instead of porcupines? Or at least cats. Maybe it was time she brought Lord Tubbington in for a show and tell.

Brittany was pretty sure they could all learn a thing or two from him.

* * *

Kurt dreamed of a gun again that night and hands all over him.

In the morning he made himself drink two cups of coffee against his will, refusing to think of what it would do to his complexion.

He was almost more exhausted without Dave than he was when he was around.

It scared him.

* * *

"Brittany, will you tell me something?"

Artie Abrams was scared frequently of late. This was just yet another of those times.

It just sucked that it was happening with his girlfriend. But then it always seemed to be that way, didn't it? Things had been like that with Tina too, and Artie didn't much know why, though he hated it the way he hated Vocal Adrenaline or people who didn't wear seat belts because they thought that made them cooler.

Brittany was someone he'd never even imagined he'd have, so he was always scared in the back of his mind, because how easy would it be for her to walk away from him, especially since there was no way for him to walk after her.

But, for the most part, Brittany was so much fun and so careless that he could forget that fear almost entirely when he was with her.

It was only recently, with Santana always on his back, that he'd begun to be unable to shove back his worries and just relax with his girl. And it didn't help that it was around everyone, and that it was so damn obvious to all of Glee that Santana had eyes only for Britt, and that Britt was almost as focused. Artie was the only reason she wasn't.

The more he'd thought about it since his first meeting with Sanatana over their duet, the more obvious that had become.

Brittany was nodding, and running her fingers along the treads of his chair's wheels, occasionally dipping down to run over the lights on either side.

"Of course, Artie. Is it about porcupines?"

"Huh?" Artie asked, brow furrowing, glasses slipping down a little.

Brittany frowned slightly.

"Nevermind. I was just saying that if you finally wanted to know, I could tell you."

"What do you mean?" Artie asked slowly, but Brittany just shrugged.

"What'd you want to ask me? I'm not psychic like Rachel is, Artie."

Artie laughed at that, since there was really not much else to do.

He didn't want to ask though.

He'd honestly rather hear Brittany talk about porcupines or cats or Rachel's apparent psychic powers or something or anything, than ask.

But the word nothing and the word nevermind refused to emerge. He had to know.

"Do you and Santana… Are you in love with Santana?"

The words were a little choked at the beginning, but then became smooth, almost toneless.

He already knew the answer but was practically dying of curiosity anyway.

This might well just kill him.

Brittany smiled and it was soft and easy and everything Brittany ever.

"Of course. But I love you too Artie. I love everyone in Glee. Plus, you're my boyfriend."

Artie stared at her.

"Do you love me the way you love everyone else or the way you love Santana?"

Artie was reminded of a scene in the movie Stand by Me.

He'd watched the movie about a week ago, and had since not been able to get it out of his head.

In the scene, one of the boys had jumped onto a railroad track while the others watched in varying degrees of horror and disbelief. He'd stood there, laughing and waiting as the train rushed toward him, playing chicken with steamrolling death, his stubbornness and refusal to see the real threat in the situation making him stay in the train's path longer than he should have. He might have managed to escape, still, all on his own… There was a chance, of course. But it was far more likely that the kid's attitude would have gotten him killed.

There came a time when you were standing there on the tracks, watching a train come toward you, and you had to decide whether to jump off when it was safe or wait until you couldn't anymore and see what came of it. Maybe even just let the train crush you.

Get yourself killed or get the fuck off.

Maybe some things had to die.

Artie couldn't get that damn scene out of his head, and he felt almost like he was stuck in it, though he wasn't sure which role was his to play.

Unless, that was, they all were laid out in front of their own trains, and were watching one another play chicken from the side lines. But he had to make up his own mind and stop playing if he wanted to stop anyone else from being destroyed.

Brittany was frowning.

"I don't know."

Artie took a deep breath and reached for her hand, and made his choice, because, with that scene stuck in his head there was no other way. He had to let himself die, didn't he?

Santana was on a track as well, and she'd only manage to escape if he let himself be crushed.

And maybe he could help save someone else too.

"Brittany, I think we have to end this."

After all, that one boy had only escaped the train to their knowledge because his friend had been around to push him out of the way. Artie couldn't do that if he was distracted with his own game of chicken, now could he?

* * *

Kurt stared wearily at a new list of resolutions from his room.

Then slowly, carefully, he gave himself the goal he'd been avoiding, rewriting the word with resigned precision.

_Survive._

He went downstairs to the party and played his part waiting for the ball to drop, cleaning mindlessly as he went.


	17. Too Far

"Therapy? You've got to be kidding me!"

Kurt pushed away the pamphlet hastily, completely mortified just looking at it.

"Hey, dude. Accepting help isn't a bad thing. This might be good for you!"

"Shut your mouth, Finn Hudson. This has nothing to do with you. Go break another grill or something."

"Actually," Carole interrupted, tightening her grip on her new husband's hand. "That's not necessarily true, Kurt."

"What?"

"Excuse me?"

Burt sighed, swiping the back of his free hand over his forehead, and giving them a stern look.

"Finn, you had the right attitude to begin with. Look guys. I don't like this anymore than you do or will, but it's true- we need help. All of us. We're a new family, and I think we could all use a little help through the adjustments."

"This is bull," Kurt said unexpectedly, and Burt's eyes flashed.

"Since when do you talk like that, huh? Look, Kurt. I think we could all use this- it will be family therapy, but I'll be honest with you: You are our biggest worry. All of ours I think."

Kurt's jaw jumped and clenched.

"I'm so sorry I've been such a problem."

"Don't," Burt's voice rose abruptly. "Don't you do that, Kurt. You're keeping something from all of us, and you know what, that's understandable. You've always liked your privacy. But lately you haven't even come to me for anything. And you think I forget the state you were in when I came home early from the honeymoon? Kurt, you are scaring me. You're scaring Carole. I'm pretty sure you're scaring Finn. And we will do whatever it takes to get this family to a place where you can share with us whatever is hurting you so much. For a long time it was just you and me, bud, and, I'll be honest- I let you grow up way too fast, and I let there be too little communication between us, and somewhere along the road you got this complex about doing things on your own that I'm pretty sure is my fault. It's not good for you, and I'm done just letting it go, because now something is happening and I know you're hiding whatever it is."

"We don't want to attack you, sweetie," Carole picked up, squeezing Burt's hand to get him to calm down and let her take the reins. Fortunately, he did.

"This is going to be all of us. We all have things to work on, not just you. You were just what got us to be sure of our decision. Unless you can tell us now."

"Yeah, tell us Kurt," Finn spoke up angrily.

Kurt scowled at his step-brother, suppressing an urge to lash out under the pressure of all of their expectant eyes.

Besides if he just waited one more…

"Tell us what you told Puck. Tell us or I will. I don't do therapy, so either you-"

"Finn," Carole interjected, voice hard-edged, but filled with concern.

Burt was staring hard at Kurt.

"What did you tell the Puckerman kid? And, almost as important, why the hell are you telling him things you should probably be telling me?"

Burt's fury was quiet but clear and Kurt shrunk inwardly, though outside he straightened and puffed up, tendons jumping to attention with his tensing muscles.

"I told him a lie to get him off my back, Dad."

He could practically hear Finn's jaw unhinge, and feel the abrupt dejection sweeping over his father.

If Kurt's head were clearer and his pride less injured he might have been angry with himself for giving away that much, when the lie could maybe have been used to get out of this, but his head was not clear and his pride was very much wounded, and so all he could do was strike back, lash out and snap his proverbial claws, no matter how much more hurt it seemed to give everyone there.

They did say that misery loved company didn't they?

"But you had bruises," Finn burst out, sounding even angrier, and Kurt rolled his eyes as though Finn's "antics" were a mere annoyance, instead of a serious threat to everything he'd been sacrificing himself to maintain.

"What?" Burt had rarely sounded angrier, and as Carole echoed him, her voice was gentle and tender but with the same base of outrage.

Kurt just shook his head.

"Puck was being dramatic."

"There were bruises," Finn rebuked. "I've seen a few before, but-"

"But you thought they were nothing," Kurt said, suddenly angry again. "Because you know I get locker checked all the time, and bruises come with the territory. Just like you also know that it's been getting worse but what do you do-"

"Kurt-"

"What's been going on?" Burt's voice was loud and roaring on the first syllable, then calm and deadly.

Kurt stared back at him for a long moment, then swallowed and turned away. When he spoke, his voice was like driftwood, stoic and blank, floating in nothingness.

"I'll see you in therapy. Until then, I'll be in my room. Please," and Kurt turned back to Burt right before disappearing past the edge of the doorway, "don't make me tell you until I can."

He was gone before Burt's angry and more than a little hurt reply could touch his features, though the distance of the hall, then of the stairs, could not keep the syllables of his father's scared, bitter disappointment from settling upon his ears.

Kurt was terrified.

He wasn't getting out of this.

* * *

Santana was terrified.

She took a deep breath and tried not to see Artie. She hadn't really looked at him since he'd told her what he'd done and asked a last favor.

She'd agreed, because while she was a major bitch, she understood closure. Plus, she was pretty sure this would mean a lot to Brittany.

The scary part was, though, that she'd been given a choice only technically. In actuality, no choice was there. The door to other options had been closed long ago, and now she'd have to come out, because what was she going to do otherwise? Brittany's handi-dickable boytoy had surprised her with something so ridiculously, annoyingly… nice, and Santana, while a bitch, left no favor unreturned and no debt unpaid.

Also, the song was perfect.

But it would mean coming out.

And Santana was terrified.

She wasn't getting out of this.

She might have been able to if it weren't for Blaine haranguing her and Artie being all annoying and altruistic and whatever and Kurt… Well, she'd have neither of the former without him. Not to mention that if it weren't for his stringently independent way of dealing with his torment and never running, she was sure she'd have done something crazy.

Like run for Prom Queen, she recalled with an inward snort, eyes falling on Quinn briefly.

But for that she'd have needed a Prom King, and everyone with any power at this school was either taken or…Karofsky. Which, she hated to admit, she'd actually thought about. But he was totally still going after Kurt, and she was hoping to soon be attached either way.

Schue clapped his hands to silence everyone, to which everyone regarded him with unconcealed amusement, then nodded to the band, and the music started up.

Santana let her eyes connect with Artie's, then darted her gaze back to Brittany and took a shuddering breath, beginning to hum softly as Artie took the first verse.

" _Katie, don't cry. I know you're trying your hardest and the hardest part is letting go of the nights we shared. Ocala is calling and you know it's haunting, but compared to your eyes, nothing shines quite as bright. And when we look to the sky, it's not mine, but I want it so…_ "

Santana's voice unfurled as Artie's faded, smoky and powerful, all the more so in her fear.

" _Let's not pretend like you're alone tonight…I know he's there and you're probably hanging out and making eyes while across the room, he stares. I bet he gets the nerve to walk the floor, and ask my girl to dance, she'll say yes."_

Beside her, Artie's voice stretched out a melancholy lament of his own.

" _Because these words were never easier for me to say or her to second guess… But I guess that I can live without you but, without you I'll be miserable at best._ "

" _You're all that I hoped I'd find in every single way_ ," Santana admitted, eyes closing hard, emotion twisting her face. " _And everything I could give is everything you shouldn't take. But nothing feels like home, you're a thousand miles away._ "

" _And the hardest part of living_ ," Artie joined her, " _Is just taking breaths to stay_ ," then, voices mingling with an abrupt unity and a further rush of power in that single-ness of mind between them: " _'Cause I know I'm good for something, I just haven't found it yet; but I need it._ "

Santana drew in air through her nose, eyes opening to Brittany's once again then moving to her partner's as he continued the song.

" _So let's not pretend that you're alone tonight, I know she's there and you're probably hanging out and making eyes, while across the room, she stares. I bet she gets the nerve to walk the floor and ask my girl to dance, she'll say yes_."

" _And this will be the first time in a week,"_ Santana took over with brutal honesty, giving a small, subconscious shrug at Brittany's focused gaze, " _that I'll talk to you and I can't speak; been three whole days since I've had sleep, 'cause I dream of his lips on your cheek. And I got the point that I should leave you alone but we both know that I'm not that strong, and… I miss the lips that made me fly_."

" _But these words were never easier for me to say or her to second guess, but I guess that I can live without you but, without you I'll be miserable…_ "

" _And I can live without you, but without you I'll be miserable_ ," Santana cried, head shaking as she zeroed in on Brittany.

" _And I can live without you, though without you I'll be miserable at best_ ," Artie finished quietly, then, slowly, wheeled to his place next to Kate and Mercedes, not waiting for anyone to say anything.

The room was quiet, then Brittany cleared her throat and stood from her chair.

"I love both of you," she said, stepping onto the main floor of the choir room, and tilting her head a little as she surveyed first Artie, then Santana. "But why didn't anyone talk to me about this?"

"I did," Artie informed the floor, and Brittany looked back at him.

"You didn't let me think about it though," Brittany retorted, her face flushed, for the first time really looking upset. "You just dumped me."

"It was for the best. You want Santana more, and she can give you more."

Brittany's brow furrowed. Behind her, Santana swallowed, immediately getting what Brittany was feeling, but reluctant to say anything when it was very definitely not what she'd wanted.

"Neither of you thought I could make up my own mind about my best interest?"

Artie said nothing.

Santana ignored the awkward clearing of Mr. Schue and Berry's throats.

"Britt Britt. I-"

Brittany licked her lips.

"You're my best friend, Sanna… You know I've said I'd be yours, proudly so, if we were both single, and you were proud too. But I wanted to be a part of it."

Santana opened and closed her mouth twice, then scowled only a little plaintively.

"You were, but you couldn't make a choice! So I took over…"

Brittany shook her head.

"Well, don't. Mr. Schue, can I go? Kate and I were doing ours tomorrow anyway."

Mr. Schuster gestured in the affirmative, eyes sympathetic, and Brittany sashayed from the room, staring straight ahead.

She was smarter than people thought.

Kurt's eyes followed her determined trail even after she was out of sight, eyes wide with revelation, an odd glimmering of both shame and admiration brightening the blue of his irises.

He heard nothing more, saw nothing more, and felt nothing more for the next three hours.

But when his senses returned, it was at full blast.

* * *

"So, why don't you all tell me about yourselves?"

There was an awkward silence in the office. The therapist, one Dr. Wineberg, seemed to be the only one unaffected, sitting affably back in his chair with hands folded nonchalantly over a knee and gaze superficially unfocused, though his eyes stayed shrewd.

His office was polished, if a little under-furnished for Kurt's tastes. The couch they'd all been herded on to was a dark brown with black lining, and made of a polyfibered material that looked only okay, but was very definitely comfortable (perhaps a little too comfortable- it was annoyingly so). The walls were a heavy tone of olive green, with baseboards of a mahogany brown coloring, the lampshades mimicking the placid look of honey and their bases sleek onyx and distinctly wide.

The office tried to be a home, but as if it were only playing along, knowing full well that it very likely would not and could not be.

Harry Wineberg's credentials were posted along the walls in black frames of a similar sleekness to the lamps that illuminated them, forming a midline around the room's perimeter, leaving his patients surrounded by the understanding of his expertise.

He seemed a man that ought to have glasses, but didn't (20/20 vision his whole life actually), though he would from time to time run a long finger up the bridge of his nose as if he did have them indeed.

His hair was wiry brown and mostly flat, with the occasional rumple, and his clothes were plain, if very surely professional, more professor-like than anything, his overcoat a slim tweed and similar dull brown to the couch across from him, with his tie a green several shades darker than that of his walls but the same overall color nonetheless- and pinstriped. His pants were corduroy, or at least looked that way, and added the last boorish finesse to his comfortingly dull persona, undermining the keenness to his gray eyes with wrinkles and comfortingly blasé attire.

Kurt didn't like him.

Finn seemed fascinated.

"What do you want to know?" Burt's voice was tired, and had more than a little of an edge.

Harry Wineberg nodded as if to himself, the pen in his hand moving, though his eyes had not swayed from the family before him.

"Whatever you want to tell me. Why not start with why you're all here? That's always a good place to go from."

Carole shifted, taking over when the men all remained silent.

"Burt and I married very recently, as you know. The boys have had some issues with each other in the past, and we wanted to settle into a better family dynamic, maybe gain a little more understanding of each other."

Dr. Wineberg nodded, rubbing a finger up the bridge of his nose.

"Well that sounds simple enough. You say the boys had issues in the past. I take it you two knew each other before your parents did then?"

Finn took that one, nodding vigorously.

"We're in school together. Your office is so cool. It looks like a house and an office in one."

Dr. Wineberg's lips twitched slightly, his hand still moving over his paper.

"Thank you… Finn, correct?"

Again, Finn nodded quickly.

"How would you describe yours and Kurt's relationship prior to your mother's remarriage to Burt? Kurt, feel free to chime in if you want."

Finn cast his step-brother a look.

"He's not going to say anything. He doesn't trust any of us. That's really why we're here. But we were friends and teammates. We have glee club together, and he was in football with me for a while last year."

Dr. Wineberg's gaze touched quickly on Kurt, his hand gaining speed over the notebook in his lap, then returned to Finn.

"You enjoy performing then?"

"Yeah. We both do," Finn replied instantly. "It's something to make us special, you know? And, like, you can get away through it. It's great. Kurt's better than me, though… By like a ton."

Kurt, whose eyes had been very firmly on either the walls or upholstery, looked to Finn at that, his gaze abruptly less sharp.

"Thanks Finn," he murmured. "But you're good too. You're the leader of choice for a reason."

"Rachel's the leader," Finn frowned, and Kurt smirked a little, conspiratorial mischief in the expression that had Burt staring at his son both fondly and sadly.

"That's why I said by choice."

Finn grinned.

"Good point."

Dr. Wineberg watched the exchange in discerning silence, then nodded once, putting down his pen, and addressing Kurt alone now.

"Finn said you were the main reason your family is here. Is that true?"

Kurt immediately tensed at the intrusion, eyes sharp again as they flickered toward the therapist.

"Of course," he remarked snidely, "I'm the only one who knows the definition of privacy, after all, which is why they had to drag us all down here on a Saturday morning to a shrink that doesn't know how to dress in a way that doesn't narcissistically echo his own office."

Dr. Wineberg nodded to himself, taking the attitude in stride, though Burt cast a frustrated look at his son.

"Kurt."

"It's fine," Dr. Wineberg commented easily. "Why don't you share with me why, though, Kurt and Finn both think that Kurt is the true source of why you made this appointment with me?"

"He isn't the only reason," Carole said slowly. "But we have been very concerned for him, and that he's keeping secrets he shouldn't be. We both love Kurt very much and have become steadily more worried, since even before our wedding."

The therapist wrote more, then turned to Burt.

"You requested that we spend two sessions worth of time together today, and that some of that time may end up being more on the individualized side of things. Do you still stand by that?"

"Absolutely," Burt replied steadily, and Dr. Wineberg sighed.

"Okay then. Can I have Kurt and Finn speak to me alone for the next roughly half-hour, and we'll go from there?"

Burt hesitated, but Carole wrapped her hand gently around his elbow and tugged him up nevertheless.

"Of course, Harry. Just let us know when we can come back. We may grab some lunch, if that's alright?"

Dr. Wineberg waved her off with a small smile.

"Of course. And Carole, Burt, congratulations again on the marriage. I heard the ceremony was more than a little impressive."

"That was all Kurt," Carole volunteered with a wink. "We'll be back."

"You know my mom?" Finn asked once the door had closed, gaping at Dr. Wineberg, who had rapidly returned to his dull front of professionalism.

"Her and your father both," he informed Finn nonchalantly. "I was a friend of your father's in high school, though we drifted apart towards the end of senior year. Your mom was his girlfriend at the time, and I got along with her better than any of his other girlfriends. Now. Back to the important stuff, eh? Why don't you two tell me more about this glee club you're in?"

"It's nothing," Kurt muttered, at the same time as Finn volunteered, "It's the best part of both of our days, though Kurt's more into it than I am."

Kurt scowled at his step-brother.

"You like to sing then?" Dr. Wineberg asked, voice neutral.

Finn nodded, then Kurt reluctantly did as well, swallowing.

"I also play drums," Finn informed the therapist with a strong inflection of pride, Kurt making a small sound of derision in his throat at the statement.

Dr. Wineberg glanced to Kurt, eyes keen and piercing.

"Do you not like the drums, then, Kurt?"

"He just thinks they're not as hard and proper as the piano," Finn complained, rolling his eyes. "He always says they're for cavemen."

Kurt tensed at the word piano, and Dr. Wineberg scribbled in his notes.

"You play piano, then?"

"I do," Kurt retorted, abruptly listless. "When are my dad and Carole coming back?"

"It's been five minutes," Dr. Wineberg said, his voice oddly gentle now, though still infuriatingly conversational.

"You're doing it again," Finn said loudly, staring at Kurt. "You don't like the piano now or something? I don't get you."

Kurt glowered at him.

"Can you ever shut your mouth Finn? I think Rachel's rubbing off on you."

Finn grinned, and Kurt's lip curled.

"That's not a good thing, Finn. It's an annoying thing. I need two socks now. One for each of you."

Finn's eyes narrowed.

"Stop being such a bitch, for God's sake! Fine, you know what, keep your secrets. Get yourself killed. See if anyone cares after everything you've put everyone through."

Kurt stiffened and looked away.

"Shut. Up. Finn."

Dr. Wineberg just watched them, pen moving quickly.

"No. I'm sick of this," Finn exclaimed angrily. "We're worried about you, and you just treat us like garbage. Everyone's been there for you and you just act like we've done nothing for you, or like we've been ignoring you, but we haven't."

"Fuck you, Finn," Kurt said after a long pause. "You've been there? No. No-one was there. It's just me, always, okay. Me and Da… Dad. And I almost lost him this year anyway, so…"

"Which everyone in Glee tried to help with-"

"Which everyone in Glee used as an opportunity to try and force their religion on me," Kurt snapped. "Face it, Finn. You ignored everything, and it's too late now."

"What?"

Kurt swallowed again, hard, paling.

"Just go back to pretending, Finn," he said quietly.

"Pretending," Dr. Wineberg spoke up abruptly, "is a tool many people use, I'm sure you both know. But it's never one that really works. Don't you agree, Kurt?"

Kurt looked up, eyes meeting with the psychotherapist's for the first time since they'd come in.

He was reminded of Brittany walking out of the room; Dave shaking, a gun in his pocket; himself, touching his throat and avoiding pianos and closets and telling Puck that he was being attacked, but not the truth of who was doing it… avoiding his dad and lying to him and all the while telling himself that everything was fine.

He thought again of the gun, and a quiver touched his limbs. He automatically hid it, then inwardly winced as Dr. Wineberg nodded, as though Kurt had answered his question, and sat back, closing the open notebook in his lap.

"I think I'll call your parents now. How about you boys wait in the lobby?"

* * *

Dave had been keeping his distance, his hands in his pockets more than they were on Kurt for what felt like the first time in ages.

It was awful how much that felt like an anomaly, how much it _was_ one.

Kurt was getting more worried with the touches absent than he was when they were there.

He could feel the tension building daily. Could practically see the coming explosion.

Something was very wrong.

* * *

It happened on a Tuesday.

* * *

Monday morning, Kurt got up early.

He'd been feeling restless more and more lately.

He stood for a long time beneath the spray of his shower, zoning out in place of the sleep he'd found himself getting less and less of.

The day drifted on, and Kurt found himself entirely unsurprised when he got a text half-way through the day, asking if he could come over after school tomorrow. They both knew the question was rhetorical, that the choice of answers wasn't a choice at all, but Kurt replied with a "yes" anyway.

He, Puck, and Sam had been given Thursday as their day for performing, and were meeting one last time on Wednesday to perfect their number.

Kurt, for the first time in his life, felt no desire to complete the performance, no thrill. Instead, his thoughts lingered on how to keep hiding, and how he barely had the energy to do even _that_ anymore- he was only keeping this secret out of shame and because he'd already told so many lies, already allowed himself to be so used, that to not see this through felt as much a betrayal of himself as hiding it had been in the first place.

No matter what Blaine or Finn or his Dad or Carole or anyone else said, he was sure that he was trapped.

"Kurt," Sam's voice was in his ear. Kurt hid a flinch and turned to face his glee-mate, arching a brow.

"What is it, Sam?"

Sam gave him a look of confusion for a moment, then shrugged and smiled.

"Puck and I were going over the number, but we're still messing up some parts. I was thinking we should meet up Tuesday night too. And maybe for the rest of lunch. Does that sound okay?"

Kurt started to nod vaguely, then stopped mid-action, realization blurring his mind.

"…Actually, I have plans that night…"

"What if it's later?" Sam asked. "I mean, I wouldn't ask if I didn't think we really need the extra practice. Kurt?"

Kurt hesitated, then forced himself to finish his earlier nod.

"Sure. I'll just…text you the time then. Or something."

"We can just hang with Finn until you get home," Sam grinned. "We've got this dude."

Kurt sighed.

"Sure… You wanted to practice now, too, right?"

Sam gestured in the affirmative and he followed the other to the choir room, dread pooling against his will in his gut.

* * *

On Tuesday, Kurt woke up late, and spent the rest of his day running to catch up.

Or maybe just running period.

* * *

The door was red and the house was white, its shutters navy blue.

Kurt had only seen it once but he knew it by heart.

He slowly stretched out a finger to press the doorbell, but found no need, the door quickly swinging open and only narrowly missing smacking him in the face. Dave's eyes didn't meet his, but a frenetic limb pulled him in all the same, and Kurt frowned at the other.

The dread pumping through his veins solidified and, for a moment, his heart stopped.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Something was wrong.

"So…" Kurt had to speak, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to even breathe. His voice emerged high and awkward, stilted in the tense air. Dave shut the door behind him. "How was…um… South Dakota?"

"North Carolina."

"Right."

"You didn't answer any of my texts or calls," Dave's voice was strange, almost hollow.

"Yeah…" Kurt cleared his throat. "You pointed that out to me when you came back, remember? You decided you were just going to drop it."

"I did," David agreed. "And now I'm picking it back up again."

Kurt stared at him hard.

"What do you want me to do then?" he asked finally, and his own voice was as hollow as Dave's, as empty and resigned.

They were two men facing their decided fates, fully aware and with any effort established as futile. Kurt shifted his weight and hooked his thumbs nervously in the tops of his jeans' front pockets.

David Karofsky took a deep breath and faced him completely, angled in front of the door.

Kurt noticed and stiffened, his heart grinding to a halt.

What?

No.

No.

But…

His thoughts were a whirl and a drone all at once, and then….disconnect.

Kurt floated up and left himself behind.

* * *

David Karofsky had spent the last few months going crazy, but it was the past two weeks that had thrown him completely over, and he'd spent them on more than just that developing sensation of insanity.

He'd had a choice. And now it was made. And he was stuck. Because he had to _know_. There was no other way. And this was what it had been coming to all along, wasn't it?

Dave took a deep breath.

Kurt wasn't the only one who had a basement.

"Come with me."

He grabbed Kurt's hand, rather than leave the other to follow, and led the way to the basement door, tugging Kurt down the flight of stairs with him.

There wasn't long.

They reached the foot of the stairs and David pushed Kurt to the couch wordlessly, straddling him quickly and kissing him hard. Kurt didn't even take the moment he usually took before responding, his lips more passionate than Dave had anticipated, causing excitement to rear in his groin. Excitement.

He was gross.

He was repulsive.

He was…sick.

Because of Kurt.

If he just did it, maybe that would be it. Maybe it could be over. Maybe…

David threw himself further into the kiss, plundering the depths of Kurt's mouth with terrified, desperate abandon, searching the other boy (because now, in this moment, that was what they were, not men, _boys_ ) for his reprieve, for his relief from the drumming agony of his self-hatred come to life. Epitomized so squarely in the boy pinned beneath him.

Kurt was everything in him he hated.

Kurt was also so much in him that he _wanted_.

David's fingers travelled numbly to the hem of Kurt's expensive shirt, relishing the roughness of his motion as he removed it from Kurt's unresisting torso, heart hammering in his own chest. He throttled Kurt's lips once more with his own, hands wandering over the pale expanse of exposed skin, pinching, clenching, bruising, everywhere he could. Hurting. He wanted Kurt to hurt, with everything he had in him. Wanted it more than the sex already thickening the air to a smothering smog. It writhed in him, as Kurt writhed below him, and Dave was done resisting, so his fingers stroked down to the button of Kurt's fancy-ass jeans, taunting him for a few minutes, then popping it open when Kurt made no real move to care.

It was nothing they hadn't done before.

Except it was. It was everything. Because this was not David's endgame, for once. He had set his sights much further than bare skin.

A mottled blush and bruised-stain rose up over Kurt's chest, his thighs, his neck. Spread like poison ivy sores, blemishing his entire body. Blemishing _him_. Bodily, he was falling apart, and otherwise he was already gone, and David both savored and despised it.

There were two monsters, he reckoned, in this story.

At least he knew he was one. Kurt, though… Kurt pranced around as though he deserved the same things as the rest of the world, if not more, as though he was natural. Well, he had.

Recently, those habits of his had begun to disappear.

David intended that after tonight they be gone completely.

He almost took off his own shirt, but didn't, and batted Kurt's hands away when they landed there with some measure of reluctant question in them. This wasn't about intimacy or experience or the two of them. It was about being done and getting rid of whatever was inside him that was making him like this.

He needed to prove to himself it would be bad.

And he needed to get rid of the urges he was ignoring in this, as well.

None of them were doing him a shred of good.

He'd be done with them after tonight.

That was, he'd better be.

Kurt's knuckles were whiter than usual, fists clutched hard around the material of the couch as he just took it, breathing hitching nonetheless, growing steadily more labored. His fingers, digging still into the material of the couch, were wrought with tremors.

David trailed wet bites over Kurt's exposed, shivering flesh, ignoring the sound of Hummel freaking out abruptly again or going into shock or whatever the fuck type hissy fit he was throwing, single-minded in his painstaking lust and the determination to fully quench and exterminate it. Kurt made a subconscious noise in the back of his throat, and Dave slammed him a little more into the couch at the sound, rising to reoccupy Kurt's mouth, swallowing his hitching, hiccupping breaths without thought.

Everything was buzzing, every sense lit afire. David sucked in a breath through his nose, diving deeper, as deep as he could get, taking every part of Kurt he could for his own. His hand rubbed lower and lower over Kurt's abdomen, then down to his thighs, spreading them when Kurt made no move to do so himself ( _Kurt was barely moving at all; in fact he was very, very still, but Dave's desperation to finish everything, to get out all he'd been holding in, kept him from making comment)_ , his fingers scrabbling at the flesh, gripping it as whatever was in him built toward implosion. His hand rose to seize and move over Kurt's still almost entirely limp penis, rutting his hips against the boy's thighs as he did so, friction spreading between them, charging the air with a heat electric and burning. Kurt twitched, and Dave glowered as he looked up to see Kurt blinking open, his eyes wet, though with tears unfalling, staying to sheen the blue of his pupils with a desolate glisten.

He looked hopeless.

Dave turned away from the sight, a new wave of revulsion washing over him, and pumped his hand harder, feeling the organ beginning to slowly, reluctantly harden under his unyielding ministrations, watching the gradual swell with an uncensored, feral fascination. He was an animal, and the world his prey.

Kurt was his prey.

He was a monster.

Dave hesitated at the thought, but then plunged on, both literally and figuratively, abruptly sinking to suck the tip of Kurt's cock into his mouth, while a finger pressed down, venturing without warning into the new territory.

Kurt gasped and jerked back, and suddenly he was alive again, his face smothered in a strange kind of horror.

And then his face was crumpling and he was sobbing, bringing in big, gulping, shuddering, rasping breaths of pure, absolute heartbreak and realization, his head shaking back and forth, his arms curling around his body, everything quaking and curling and absolutely fucking falling to pieces.

But David had had a plan, and he couldn't let Kurt's meltdown stop him.

He reached forward, hands clenching around Kurt's wrists, dragging his arms up and to each side, pinning him with fury-borne strength and single-mindedness.

Kurt struggled.

He wrenched and writhed, everything in him once more bright and shining and filled with the life only given when death was realized, the determination to maintain something, _anything_ , at the cold touch of having nothing.

It wouldn't be enough.

David wouldn't let it.

Kurt jerked, flailed, scrabbling at Dave's bruising grip on him, at the sides of the couch, and when it all failed at himself.

He pulled free and fell to the floor, only for David to pin him once more there and grimly stare him down as a finger ruthlessly thrust inside him, and Kurt screamed with all that he had, once more himself in this absolute demolition, standing on the verge of his complete destruction. He threw himself into escape, threw all he had and more into surviving this, because that was what Kurt Hummel did, even if he'd forgotten for a while.

And David was the broken one here, he was the one.

No.

He couldn't, he wouldn't take this.

Kurt was stronger than Karofsky.

And he was not giving up that last bit of himself he'd kept private to some closeted, self-loathing, psychotic Neanderthal.

It was too much.

Kurt gave a final, desperate shove, pouring all his rage, all his hurt, all his feelings of damage and worthlessness and filth from the past three or more months, into the action, and was free, staggering up and throwing his boot-clad foot into Dave's stomach, then, breathing hard, his hardened groin, and tore away from the jock, the world melting into a blur beyond the need of _out_.

He was done. He was out.

He ran up the stairs and flung the door open ( _late, late, late_ ), shoving it closed behind him, and ran some more, out the front door now, unlocking his car and diving inside, locking the door just in time as David hurtled out of his own house and toward Kurt's car.

There were tears coursing thick down his cheeks, and he looked oddly like a child, lost and out of control beneath the torrent of his own emotions, too small, despite his actual hulk, to control a thing.

But Kurt had no more pity left to give. No more anything. David Karofsky would take no more from him.

He turned the key hard in the ignition and threw the car into gear, backing hastily out of the Karofsky's driveway and down the street, pulling over when he was roughly two blocks away to do up his seatbelt with trembling hands and take a moment to catch his breath and fix his hair, because he was Kurt Hummel and no-one could take that away from him, not for good, and because he was not getting out of this just to get himself killed in the escape.

When he started the car again, it was with steadier hands and breathing, bangs smoothed to the side, the engine rumbling up slowly to greet him, and he took off again, with care this time, with less rush.

Unfortunately, as everything slowed and his adrenaline drained away, though, Kurt was left with reality, and the bitter taste of David still fresh in his mouth, the button of his jeans still undone and the zipper half-way down.

The filth was still there.

He swallowed down the taste and the acrid rush of bile it had brought, forcing himself on towards home, his thoughts once more a mile a minute, hands clenching white around the steering wheel.

What would he tell his Dad?

He'd have to tell him something.

But then the police might get involved, and then this would be turned into a _thing_ , and that was exactly what Kurt _didn't_ want.

Still, Kurt had made up his mind. He couldn't keep going with Karofsky, couldn't allow himself to travel head-first into his own annihilation.

Blaine had been right.

He hadn't been stuck.

But now he was. He'd kicked Dave Karofsky, and refused him. Had left him crying. He'd have to go to school, have to see him, and David might very well kill him.

Kurt drew a shuddering breath, parking his car in the driveway, vision dim, ears roaring.

Maybe…maybe he could just put it off? See how things went… No need to tell everyone when there was a chance he'd scared Karofsky off tonight, was there? After all, Dave had been _crying_.

He just… Kurt needed some time to think.

He needed time to relax and comprehend what had happened, and figure it all out.

Kurt entered the house quietly, and moved like a shadow up the stairs to his room, backing into it until he could shut the door, at which point he turned and leaned back against it, breathing still ragged, his entire body moving in time with his chest.

"Kurt?"

Kurt's eyes snapped open, his movements freezing in time, his heart stopping.

Sam Evans was sitting cross legged on his bed, a guitar in his lap, and Puck was slowing himself from a spinning fit in Kurt's desk chair, staring at him with his mouth gaping open.

He'd forgotten.

God, he'd forgotten.

Kurt's breath hitched, the air strangling in his throat.

He'd forgotten. He'd forgotten. He'd forgotten.

And now they _knew_.

His pants were still undone.

"What are you doing in my room?" he demanded, voice high and choked and furious.

Sam was staring at him, jaw set slightly ajar, eyes wide and gaze faltering as though he didn't know where was safe territory to leave it.

His eyes kept zooming between Kurt's eyes, his hair, still hopelessly messy along its top, the bruises creeping along his collar, the askew hanging of his shirt, and still unbuttoned jeans, then back to the ice of his irises.

"Um…"

"Finn abandoned us to mess around with Rachel," Puck interjected, sounding well beyond the realm of angry. "And we decided to just wait for your ass in here. Good thing, too, I'm guessing, huh, Kurt? Don't tell me. You ran into those thugs again, huh? But wait- that can't be right, since according to Finn that was all a goddamn lie. I think we're the ones who get to ask questions here now, Kurt. Don't you agree?"

Sam was still just looking at him.

"I-…"

"Tell us, Kurt," Sam spoke up, his voice low, but firm, eyes cast downward.

In his head, Brittany was again walking out of the choir room, leaving behind both the people he loved, because she loved herself more, and was sure of what she deserved. He heard Dr. Wineberg saying just a little too knowingly that pretending never really worked. That it only ever made things worse, and the truth would get out eventually anyway.

He saw Dave's tears, and felt his large, digging hands. Felt the fingers around him and inside him, and remembered the day when it was just a kiss that had left him devastated. Remembered the days that had passed where he'd never said anything, all leading him deeper and deeper into the hole that would have been his own grave had he not been able to clamber out at the last second. He was still poised there though. He needed to get back from the edge.

Kurt could not keep pretending.

He'd fall again, and he didn't think he could get out of this a second time. He wasn't even sure that he was out of it now.

He swallowed hard, and looked between Puck and Sam.

They were grim, but determined. And, for once, they were truly there.

Unable to stop himself after everything that had happened tonight alone, and then the months leading up to it as well, Kurt let the explosion come, let everything he'd kept bottled up rush out.

He sank slowly to the floor and drew his knees to his chest and talked to the floor, but he did it nevertheless.

He told them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song credit:  
> Santana and Artie-- "Miserable at Best" by Mayday Parade.


	18. Hibernation

" _It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world."_

_-Chaos Theory_

…

" _There's a ripple effect_ _i_ _n all that we do. What you do touches me_ _;_ _w_ _hat I do touches you_ _."_

_**-** _ _Anonymous_

* * *

Finn Hudson wondered sometimes if there was something small he or someone else did that caused a really big shift in the schedule of the world, and made really big changes happen.

He could never really think of anything he'd done, but maybe, he considered, that was the point. Maybe reality was the only way for things to ever be.

He thought this might have been a bit stupid or ignormanic or whatever the word Rachel always said about the kids who told her she had no talent, but he also was a little proud and thought privately that maybe she was the one that was ignoramic and he was just really deep. He liked that idea better.

In any case, Finn could think of a few things he'd done that had seemed little, but made a really big difference. Like, if he'd put a bit more effort into convincing his mom she didn't have to go to parent night a year ago, she might have never met Burt, and he and Kurt would never have become family.

Also, if he'd had Quinn come over to his house like he'd considered on that one day when he knew now that Beth had been conceived, she might have never had sex with Puck. Maybe he and Rachel would have never gotten together then, and Puck would have never gotten nicer, maybe even never joined the Glee club, since Quinn was supposedly a big part of why he'd joined. And the truth about Mr. Schue's wife would have probably come out a lot sooner, and then he'd have never slept on that mattress, and he would have been able to come with them to sectionals and they'd never sing "You Can't Always Get What You Want" and Ms. Pillsbury would have married Coach Tenaka, so the Beiste would never have had to show up, and neither would the [dentist](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/18/Vibrato) that made Brittany come out of her shell, and….

The list went on and on for that one little decision, and it made Finn's head hurt to think of how much would have been different.

He didn't know why he woke up that night thinking about these things, and again the next morning, only that he did.

He thought maybe it was because of something he'd dreamed, but all he could really remember from his dream was shutting a door, and, really, that couldn't be related, could it? Finn understood that sometimes small decisions could make a lot of things happen now, but come on. Something like just shutting a door couldn't make any real sort of change.

For a moment after he told himself this, he was unsure. He thought really hard, and tried to imagine what it would matter. But, he couldn't really think of much. Could shutting a door actually make any sort of difference?

Cold sweat prickled at the skin on the back of his neck and he swiped at it, dragging his dulled fingernails over the spot.

Could it?

… _Nah_ …

Finn shrugged on a shirt and went to school, completely missing the way his brother's shoulders sagged and the ginger-ness with which he moved, the way he avoided meeting Finn's eyes, and the resigned expression to his face when Sam and Puck came over and asked Kurt to give them a ride. He didn't see the looks Sam and Puck shot each other, and though he did think it was strange for them to be there at all, it was easily explained by a desire for some morning practice given their number being tomorrow.

He left just after them, munching toast and thinking of regionals and what it would mean and went to meet up with Rachel just inside the school and watch happily as outside it began to drizzle.

In the choir room, Sam, Puck, and Kurt sat in empty silence, until Puck announced:

"I'm still punching him if I see him today, suspicious or not."

Kurt shrugged, eyes on the piano.

Sam followed his gaze, sighed, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll walk with you to first period."

* * *

For Sam Evans, life was rapidly becoming a blur.

Everything felt like it was falling down around him ever since that night at Kurt's place, if not before. He still hated that they hadn't gone to the police.

He'd seen Kurt every day since, of course, as per the terms of their agreement. He and Puck stayed with Kurt throughout school in shifts, with them going over to Kurt's in the morning and getting a ride to school, then either getting a ride home with him or literally walking him to his car if it was a Glee day, neither leaving the parking lot until he was in the street, and driving from sight.

Still, the system had its imperfections, ones he was more than aware of.

Like that he and Puck had still been unable to resist catching Karofsky the day after they'd found out at school. And Sam was pretty sure he'd overheard Puck telling Karofsky that if he ever so much as glanced at Kurt again Puck would rip his balls off and shove them down his throat till he choked on them.

Of course, all that time with Puck and Kurt had pissed off Quinn, with whom his relationship had rapidly deteriorated. And then Finn came up to him the day after Valentine's and informed him that Quinn had come on to him. Which of course Rachel soon found out about, causing a major cat fight in the middle of their duet of Part of your World from The Little Mermaid.

Brittany and Santana had ended up bonding and getting together over their shared amusement watching it all go down and now weren't "together", but had no issue making out in the choir room (although that was it).

Sam consequently broke up with Quinn, and focused on Kurt, and then on Mercedes as well when he found her crying after Glee one day.

It was good they had Kate, too- they'd ended up needing her after all, and for exactly what Rachel had so long ago predicted, though not in its exact terms.

Once they'd completed their number in Glee, two days after Kurt had confessed everything to Sam and Puck in his room, Kurt had "tenured his resignation from Glee club", in his own words.

The chaos that followed was horrible.

It was why Mercedes had been such a mess, part of what made Brittany turn to Santana, even before the cat fight, and Artie's sense that he was being left out of something very important on top of everything else had, according to Puck, left him vaguely suicidal.

Even Tina and Mike were having drama lately.

Sam had hoped once that he could just get through at McKinley. He'd thought it was somewhere where he could maybe hopefully get into a place somewhere toward the top and then just kind of fade into the background of other jocks, not targeted by anyone, not having to sort his way through any drama, which he'd been pretty sure he'd had enough of at his old school (really, for an all guys boarding school, it had had some pretty ridiculous soap-opera type stuff going down).

Clearly, McKinley had had other plans for him, though, because he'd never been in the center of so much pure drama and _bullshit_ than he had since he'd been here.

Fortunately, there was a little less to deal with on the Kurt/Karofsky front, since the day after he and Puck had gone after him, Karofsky went absent from school, apparently due to some kind of "family emergency".

He hadn't been back since.

But whenever he did, which he _would_ , Sam, Puck, and Kurt were all sure, they still weren't letting him anywhere near Kurt- one wrong look and they'd out him, then kick the living shit out of him, no holds barred. The asshole deserved it already, and, honestly, both Puck and Sam would take any excuse to completely kill the dude.

Sam had never been angrier over anything else in his life than he'd been when Kurt had told them what Karofsky had done.

Puck had pointed out that it probably hadn't even been the full story, knowing Kurt.

Sam, honestly though, was a little terrified, and more than a little relieved that Kurt hadn't gone into full detail, much as he despised feeling that. If Kurt did come to him with more, he'd listen of course, but he really didn't want to know.

What he'd heard already was enough to make him feel sick, most of all because he hated himself for not having noticed.

He kind of hated everyone for that, as well, though he knew it was wrong.

And Kurt. He felt awful for it, but he was furious with Kurt for never telling them, for letting it get to the point that it had.

He was just relieved they'd been there. Otherwise, there was a chance still no-one would know.

Kurt was _so_ strong, but _so_ stupid.

And Sam was still so completely furious.

He had nightmares, and that was from the story alone.

Now, despite his best efforts, it was becoming too much, and he could feel himself slowly collapsing under the pressure of everything. It was all getting to him. Sam hated that, too.

He just wanted to tell someone.

He wished for what seemed the millionth time that he and Puck had never given Kurt their word that they'd not tell anyone unless he said it was okay.

Kurt had been such a wreck and it had been just them doing anything they could to calm him down and keep him going.

Puck seemed pissed too, but less so about that. He said he figured Kurt needed at least a little control right now.

And for his own part, well, Sam had given his word, hadn't he?

And, unfortunately, in his world that was that.

* * *

Blaine didn't know what to think.

Kurt had taken to talking to him, blandly but still, once more over the break, but now he'd again stopped communicating, and this time Santana had, not stopped but slowed down, right along with him.

He was pretty sure it was unhealthy how unbalanced that left him.

Blaine had a ton of friends in the Warblers and outside of them here at Dalton. He loved it.

But, somehow, he'd connected to Santana and Kurt on a level he hadn't with those he had at Dalton Academy. Not that he cared less for either side… It was more that he could be different parts of himself with both groups, and, for whatever reason, he ached more and more for the side he got to be when he was around his friends from McKinley.

Which was frustrating when they were scarcely talking to him at all.

Blaine licked his lips and checked himself nervously in his car's mirror one more time before climbing out, nervous despite himself, because he was breaking so many rules right now, and that was something that Blaine Anderson really didn't do.

He'd once been a hall monitor, after all, and the attitude of it had never really left him.

McKinley high school towered in front of him.

Blaine wasn't one to shy from confrontation, aside from the few months of cowed trepidation the beating at his last school's end of year dance had incurred in him, months he looked back on with a vague sense of self-disgust, because, really, he'd never had such little courage.

Courage he truly wore now, maybe a little too distinctly, as he marched up to the school.

He refused to be left out of the loop again, now, and if that meant interrupting the New Directions after-school meeting then so be it. Besides, he doubted they were working on the songs they were actually doing for Regionals anyway, even if it was only a week and a day away.

He and Kurt rarely discussed show choir, but Santana when annoyed didn't hold back, and their inability to come up with and rehearse their actual competition numbers was one complaint she loved to rant about when her fury over their ineptitude ran a little too high. Apparently, the last time New Directions had legitimately prepared their song list and done every song beforehand had been their first ever sectionals and they hadn't even been able to follow through- Which might well explain why they never had bothered with preparations since, seeing as they'd won that competition regardless.

Blaine eyed the floor as he walked toward where he knew the choir room to be from his prior visit, recalling with an odd mingling of frustration and fondness Kurt's elaborate "tour" of the place after their brief lunch.

If he remembered correctly, it would be right…

The sound of loud bickering met his ears, and he knew immediately he was in the right place. And then if he hadn't been sure enough already, Mercedes's loudly called out "Hell to the no" and Santana began cursing in Spanish.

He had to give it to them… They were an interesting group. Their rehearsals were obviously more exciting than any of the Warblers' were.

Blaine jumped back as the door to the choir room swung open and just narrowly avoided slamming into his face. Finn, Puck, and Sam burst into the hallway, all three shouting between and stopping abruptly at the sight of Blaine.

"Um, what the hell? Do you go here now or something?" Finn asked blankly, his brow creasing. Puck seized the opportunity to shove him hard, and Finn turned on him, scowling and pushing back just as angrily.

"Guys," Blaine called out, considering grabbing their arms. Instead he turned to Sam.

"What's going on?" Sam glanced at him.

"What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see Kurt and Santana," Blaine explained after a moment. "And they're both in there, so if I could get through…"

"Kurt's not in there," Finn said loudly, and Blaine turned back to him.

"What do you mean?"

"Kurt quit Glee a couple weeks ago," Finn snapped, glowering now between Sam and Puck. "And these two still won't tell me why, even though I know they know something I don't. I'm his brother, man," Finn finished indignantly, looking back to his mostly ex-best-friend. "I deserve some answers!"

"You don't deserve shit," Puck spat back, and Finn started toward him again, held off this time by Blaine's hand gripping his arm.

"Kurt stopped talking to me again. I want answers too. Maybe if we just go back to your house-"

"Won't work. He only ever talks to those two now," Finn snarled, and both Sam and Puck threw him sneers.

"Maybe neither of you deserve answers," Sam snapped out, eyes narrowed, a hand pushing the blond hair irritably from his face. "Ever thought of that?"

"Of course I have," Finn bellowed abruptly, and Spanish cursing with his name interspersed erupted from the choir room.

All three boys turned to stare at the door, and Sam winced as the door shoved open as much as it could against his back.

"Let me out, Trouty," Santana hissed dangerously through the crack. "What are you blocking the door with? Your lips? If I slip on saliva, I swear to God-"

Sam moved from the doorway, head ducked down, and the door swung open.

"Look here pea-brains, this shit will not work-"

"Santana," a voice called from inside, and she whirled on the now open choir room door to glower at their show choir director.

"No. Mr. Schue, I'm outie, a'ight? Comprendo? I'm done for the day. Meatheads plus random Blaine, you're coming with. Got it? Good. Britt? Let's go."

Unsure what to do, they each followed her out of the school, Brittany hurrying from the choir room to Santana's side, automatically linking their pinkies.

"What are we doing?" Finn asked finally, once they'd broached the lot that held students' cars.

"We're going to your house," Santana said definitively. "I'm not doing this soap opera bs anymore. So, we're finishing it."

"No, we can't do that," Sam spoke up, eyebrows drawn together. "You'll just upset Kurt. And then even we won't be able to talk to him." Sam addressed the last part to Puck, who immediately stiffened.

"He's right. I'm not down with that."

"Then we'll just go without you," Santana shrugged, smirking at them. "We'll see who gets there first."

* * *

David Karofsky was terrified.

"David?"

His dad was in the doorway again. Recently, he seemed to always be there.

His hair seemed grayer.

"Do you think you might go to school tomorrow?"

David didn't answer for a long moment, just focusing on the slow flexing of his fingers. His knuckles were red, scratched, and dry.

Finally, he shook his head no.

Not yet.

* * *

Kurt didn't know what he was doing, just that it wasn't going well.

Things might have stopped with David, but that didn't stop his nightmares. In fact, if anything they seemed to be getting worse.

It didn't help matters that he was being watched like a hawk.

The only time he really had to himself anymore was from eleven p.m. to seven or eight a.m., when their house locked down and everyone generally slept (or tried to), and an hour or so right after school, when all his friends were at Glee and his dad and Carole were both at the shop or in the garage.

His hour was almost up.

Otherwise, he was always being hounded, mostly by the two ridiculous jocks that had somehow ended up being the only ones to know the truth of what had happened to him.

How Mohawk and Blondie had ended up being his biggest confidants, Kurt would never know, but he was sure the sanity of those choices was questionable at its best. He now knew things about both of them he'd never wanted to know, and about Quinn that he'd _really_ never wanted to know, and they knew more about him in turn than he was even remotely comfortable with, particularly considering that Puck had once been one of his biggest bullies.

And speak of the Devil…

"Kurt," Puck's voice rang through the house, Sam's swiftly joining. They both sounded out of breath.

Kurt moved reluctantly from his room as the sound of locks clicking shut reached his ears, sidling slowly down the stairs to greet his new best friends.

"Did glee end early or something?"

"No, but people did cut out early," Sam informed him, just in time for a series of loud knocks to start up on the door.

"What's going on Sam? Noah?"

"Santana, Blaine, and Finn all decided to come here and interrogate you," Puck said bluntly, and Kurt turned narrowed eyes to the door.

"And why would they do that?"

"Finn, don't you have a key?" they heard Blaine ask, and there was a scuffling, followed by Santana cursing in Spanish at the same time as Finn did so in English.

Kurt crossed his arms tightly over his chest, Sam and Puck moving from the door to his side, all three waiting.

Finally, Finn announced that he couldn't find it, and Kurt rolled his eyes, moving swiftly forward and unlocking the door, then shoved the door open, arching a brow at his friends then simpering, glasz eyes flashing something inscrutable, and went past them to his car, shaking the keys he hadn't stopped keeping on his person since that night at them once smugly before he unlocked his car and climbed in, relocking the doors just in time as Finn and Santana both slammed against the doors, jerking at the handles. Puck and Sam emerged from the house, very obviously pissed, and Kurt did his best to not look at them. They shouldn't have gotten involved in the first place, but it was too late to do anything about that.

His phone, on the passenger seat now, began to ring.

Kurt looked at it a moment, then reluctantly picked it up and pressed the button to accept the call, glancing vaguely at his audience.

"What, Blaine?"

"Can we talk?"

"I'm not really supposed to be on the phone and talking," Kurt retorted. "It's dangerous, you know?"

"You're not driving."

Kurt's eyes found Blaine's through his windshield and he very deliberately reached over and buckled his seatbelt.

"I will be, though. There's a sale today, and I thought it was a good opportunity to update my wardrobe. Did you see the latest Vogue?"

He heard Puck angrily in the background asking what he was saying, and tried not to scowl.

That was none of his business. Honestly, nothing he did was really their business.

He told Blaine pointedly to tell Puck as much and heard the low, furious buzz of Puck's retort in the background, before Puck snatched the phone from Blaine.

"Come on Kurt, cut the crap."

But at this point Kurt had seriously had it. He had been suffocating enough doing this on his own, but now he didn't have anything to himself and while David wasn't killing him anymore (at least, not really), this was. He just wanted out, just wanted space to breathe, because he felt like he hadn't even had that much in what had to be years, but was really more like five, nearly six months, which was still a ridiculous stretch of time, and couldn't they see that he just needed to breathe?

If it wasn't one thing, it was another, and Kurt was too exhausted to do it anymore.

He needed a break, like now.

"Kurt, at least have Sam go with you."

Kurt couldn't actually see Puck anymore, but he could hear the grit of his teeth and the image of his mounting frustration and the tensing of his muscles, their tendons rising to firm ridges beneath his bronzed flesh, was as clear in his head as if he could.

"I need some time alone," Kurt said finally, confidently, more so than he really was. "I have my phone on me. I can call if something happens."

"Or the phone can get knocked out of your hands and broken and you won't have shit," Puck said quietly, and he actually sounded worried. There was another voice in the background, and Puck snarled a bit, then bit out: "You know what, you talk some sense into him. I can't anymore."

Finn was still at Kurt's window, but his glower had faded into a sad-puppy-dog expression that Kurt did his best to ignore.

"Kurt?"

Sam, of course. Tweedle Dumber always handed the phone to Tweedle Dumb. Or maybe it was the reverse. He didn't know and didn't care.

Kurt jabbed his finger to the speaker button and dropped his phone into a cupholder.

"You want to come with me?" he asked, and turned the key in the ignition.

Sam's already loud sigh magnified through the crackling of the speaker, hanging in the air of the car as Kurt backed out of the driveway, almost laughing when Santana emerged less than a second after he began reversing with Brittany and Blaine at her heels and a hockey stick in her hands, all ready to pull a Mercedes.

"I'm gonna buy some scarves. What color do you think is best, Samuel?"

There was rustling, then:

"Fine …Hold on… let me get up to your room to hide out then. Santana's throwing a bitch fit and she keeps trying to bring my mouth into it."

Kurt smirked at that despite himself.

"Your mouth _is_ huge."

"Kurt," Sam started but Kurt interrupted him.

"I _know_ , okay? I just want to have some time to myself."

"It's dangerous," Sam's voice was hard, but not unrelenting, and Kurt almost apologized except for the fact that he couldn't bring himself to be sorry and honestly didn't feel like faking any contrition.

At least, not for this. Not for running out.

He was sorry he'd brought them into it in the first place, and sorry the events that had led him to this place at all had transpired- but, as of now, that was about it.

As of now.

"Do you really want to stay on the phone with me during a shopping trip?" Kurt asked derisively. "I'm telling you now, I'll be spending the entire time discussing the beginning of Spring collections with you, and what the Spring and Summer lines will probably include and have in common. I'll also rant about fashion atrocities like crocs."

"I'll just take a nap or read or something," Sam said definitively, "and keep the phone on."

Kurt groaned.

"You're ridiculous, and I'm not willing to do that. Besides, this is Blaine's phone, and he uses it so much that it always runs out of charge by seven if he doesn't charge it again. And, this isn't me getting alone time. I'm sick of being chaperoned. I told you guys because I was done letting my life and the way I was acting be decided by some stupid, self-hating neaderthal. But this is just more of the same. I'm hanging up, Sam…"

"Kurt," Sam started angrily, but Kurt just gave the phone a determined glance and hit the off button, then glanced back to the red light he was at and waited for it to turn green.

"I'm sorry I'm not sorry," he said aloud, then laughed a little sharply, at himself, at Sam, at his classmates' ridiculousness, at his own, at how David was still effecting his life, and how the light had turned green five seconds ago and he was still sitting here, breathless at how hilarious it all seemed. At Everything.

A car behind him honked angrily and he blinked, slamming onto the gas with a little more force than was probably necessary.

Kurt sighed, shaking his head as he drove, reaching over to flick on the radio, turning up the volume until it could drown the buzz in his head and the tight feeling in his chest, fingers drifting from the knob to his knee, then clenching down. He blinked again.

He almost went through a red light and growled at himself a little, hand rising back to grip the steering wheel with the other. What was he doing? What was wrong with him?

The mall crept into view on his right, the back of a plaza visible just beyond it.

And in that plaza was Dr. Wineberg's office.

Kurt almost passed the mall, thinking about it, but turned into it anyway at the last minute.

Bringing Sam and Noah into this mess was already too much; he didn't need to let in some stupid therapist. Especially one that would probably tell his dad and Carole.

He headed in, but couldn't stop himself from looking back before he entered.

Which didn't mean anything, at all.

Kurt was halfway through his criticism of the Sears' attempts at pretending they had anything near fashion in their stores, when mocking laughter hit his ears and he automatically straightened.

Frustration curled his fingers into fists at his side that he unfurled with difficulty, struggling to get back the air of cool stoicism for which he was famous. He wasn't about to let these complete mongrels…

"Look who it is, guys," Azimio spoke up. "Hey fairy. It's been a while hasn't it?"

It had.

Kurt knew something had been off lately, but he'd been so distracted by everything with Dave…

"We laid off a bit for Hudson and Puckerman's benefit after the big game," Azimio continued, elbowing one of his friends with a jeering grin. "But I think we've let up a bit too long. Especially since my best friend told me a story the other day about how much you've been pissing him off. And then his grandma died, and I figured maybe we should get him a little present to make him feel better. What do you think, Hummel?"

Kurt paused, then turned slowly to face the group of jocks behind him and very pointedly rolled his eyes.

"I think you're all morons, whatever David said to you is completely untrue, and that you might want to realize that wearing your letterman jackets everywhere is the worst fashion statement you could ever make, and makes you look even dumber than you are, which you'd think would be impossible, but… Well. And because of that I also think that you either have no mirrors in your house or you've all taken far too many hits to the head and actually have been made to somehow think that you look cool. Now, if you'll excuse me- Boys."

"I can't believe we were ever on a team with that fag," Kurt heard one of the guys, Welklin, saying in disgust, and murmurs of agreement.

And the heat of a fury that had been curdling in his stomach for years hissed, then boiled over, as a realization hit.

They, they were it.

For whatever reason, a part of Kurt kept searching for a reason for everything that had happened with Karofsky, a reason beyond what Dave had told him and the lame excuses he'd told himself, and now it hit him like a bullet, like a train chugging a thousand miles an hour- It was them.

And they didn't even realize it.

These ridiculous, arrogant, ignorant, small-town meatheaded morons.

And more than anything, Kurt was furious abruptly that he had to know and he had to deal with the consequences of all these actions and prejudices that weren't his own, as if the hatred of so much of the rest of the world wasn't enough.

And he wanted them to know.

Dave wouldn't lie," Azimio told them, and then Kurt. "He's back in school tomorrow, fairy. You ready for that?"

He wanted them to _realize_ , and he wanted them to have to deal with what their prejudices meant.

Kurt Hummel didn't believe in outing, but Kurt Hummel also didn't believe that these assholes should get to stroll around happily hurting people in their ignorance. He also wasn't as sure he was that same old Kurt Hummel after everything. That Kurt had probably never been this angry.

He was _so_ _angry_.

And Kurt Hummel didn't believe in outing, _not at all_ , but keeping to the things he believed in was also fast becoming a luxury he could not afford.

"Hate to break it to you meatheads, but you're still on a team with Dave. Who, fyi, is gay, and not into any of you clearly, and maybe if you guys wouldn't be such close-minded bigots about it he could actually be a productive, good member of society _and_ be himself, instead of the self-hating, destructive _homo_ that he is now."

The words were out before he could stop them, and David Karofsky was immediately doomed.

But so were the rest of them.

Kurt's eyes were square on Azimio's, brutal honesty making his gaze narrow and cutting, but clear and sure and unrelentingly not-lying.

There was silence.

Kurt sighed, rolled his eyes, sure they didn't believe him anyway, which was probably better anyway, for everyone involved, and pushed past the group going toward the parking lot, because suddenly he didn't feel like shopping anymore.

"You're lying," Azimio's voice was forceful and furious. "You're just talking shit because you're jealous. You're lying Hummel!"

Kurt just shook his head and was out the door, before he could hear the disgusted tone of another's voice as he spoke up:

"I'm not sure he was, Z."

Another door closed as Kurt headed into the parking lot, breathing hard all of a sudden, and the wind whipped hard around him as the heated whispers rippled through the group of jocks inside and text messages, first to each other, then other members of the team.

And before the end of the night, Azimio's thumb would be hesitating over a send button.

The message- **Hummel said you're a fag Wtf? R u? …Don't talk to me again if you are.** \- was saved to his draft box instead of being sent, but that didn't stop it from being there in the first place.

* * *

"Karofsky's gay?" Finn's voice was too loud, even over the music blasting from the stereo system in Kurt's room.

Puck and Sam both stared at him.

"What?" Puck asked finally.

"Check your phones," Finn said angrily, and they both did.

"Fuck," Puck growled almost immediately.

Sam was already dialing Kurt.

It went straight to voicemail.

Finn glared at them.

"You guys all knew, didn't you? This has something to do with Kurt! Explain to me now," Finn's voice had rarely if ever been more like steel.

Puck and Sam exchanged looks.

Neither of them knew what to do.

All they knew was that they really had to talk to Kurt. Now, preferably.

* * *

Kurt wasn't sure why he was there, why now of all times, but he was and he couldn't bring himself to leave, so he just went sat there in the parking lot in his car, breath still coming hard.

He had a very bad feeling that things had already been bad and he'd just made them worse.

His phone on the seat beside him started to ring and he watched it until it went to voicemail, then let his head fall forward against the steering wheel.

He'd just wanted some time alone.

His phone buzzed a moment later and he turned to stare at it.

He didn't want to talk to anyone right now though, didn't they get that? At least, not any of _them_.

Kurt's eyes touched on the around him, and, finally, he made his decision and unbuckled his seatbelt, grabbing his phone and sliding it into his pocket as he got out without a second thought, even as it vibrated again and a second message joined the first.

"Kurt Hummel?"

Kurt looked up.

Dr. Wineberg was staring at him.

"My receptionist told me you were here to see me. I thought it was a mistake. …Did you need to see me?"

Kurt didn't know what to say, so he said nothing, but nodded, which was enough. The doctor smiled politely at him, then turned to the receptionist.

"Call Janice Wile and tell her I have to push her appointment back a bit if it's alright, will you Joyce?"

The receptionist nodded.

"Not a problem, Harry. She may actually want to reschedule anyway. She called earlier."

Dr. Wineberg nodded.

"Keep me informed then. Alright, come on Kurt. Follow me."

Dr. Wineberg waited until they'd broached his personal office and Kurt had seated himself gingerly on the edge of the sofa before clearing his throat and looking at the seventeen year old over steepled fingers.

"So, what's going on?"

Kurt shot the closed door of the office a glance and crossed his legs, siding his hands beneath his thighs.

"What's your confidentiality policy?"

* * *

David walked into school the next day, expecting to need to lay low and avoid Kurt. Expecting maybe some questioning looks, the occasional muttered "sorry" for the made-up death of his grandmother, who'd actually died exactly a year ago, which was his biggest excuse to his parents for wanting to miss as much school as he had.

He had expected it to be rough.

He hadn't expected it to be hell.

But there it was, scrawled over his locker in bright pink spray-paint and he could just die right there.

And the world fell away.

He knew he should have never left his room, but this was what he got for doing it anyway.

He turned around to stare at his teammates, who stared right back like something out of a nightmare.

There was none of the expected laughter, though. No more slurs.

Just the one, even though that was certainly enough.

Instead, in the locker-room there was only silence.

Everything had changed, whether it was true or not, which no-one knew for sure, except that they actually kind of did, and if they hadn't the look on Dave's face was enough to decide it all.

So, no, no-one was laughing. They were mourning.

Because it was without a doubt that this would be the tempest before the storm, and that what followed would for every single one of them be hell.

They had to do what they had to do. They all had roles to fulfill, and that wasn't about to stop, but in this moment they all had to be the boys they really were, confused and hurt and angry and, more than anything else, resigned to what was basically the death of a favorite teammate in their eyes. David was no longer David for them, and for David Karofsky his friends wouldn't be friends anymore.

And, with the truth written in angry, neon letters over Dave's lockers, they all sat together grieving under the weight of this change and the hell that would surely soon be upon them.

* * *

Elsewhere, Will Schuster grinned at the his glee club members.

"One week to Regionals, guys. You ready?"

"Ready to take this, hell yeah," Mike spoke up, smacking hands with Artie.

"Any volunteers for the numbers?"

"Volunteers, really?" Santana snapped, and Mr. Schue smiled at her.

"You might have a little more enthusiasm after I introduce our special guest…"

"Who's our special guest?" Tina spoke up, sounding legitimately curious.

"Holly Holiday," a voice announced.

"You're already subbing for our sex-ed class," Mercedes said, staring at the woman. "And you were just here yesterday because Brit thought she was pregnant with a stork-baby."

"I didn't think, I knew. Santana and I were going to be mommies," Brittany said defiantly, and Santana sighed at her.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Schue, but I've thought about it and I really don't think that adding sexy to our repertoire is going to help us win Regionals," Rachel intoned aggravatedly. "I for one think original songs-"

"Nope, not gonna happen," Quinn immediately shot her down, sounding bored.

"You know," Holly spoke up, and she was smiling. "Things don't have to be about bodies and actually having sex to be sexy. There's all kinds of sexy out there guys. And it can just be about what's meaningful to you. Intimacy is one of the biggest things that makes something sexy. So, if you're singing songs are intimate to you, then it still works. Even if it's a little lame. But, let's be real. You guys are a Glee Club. Lame is pretty much what you do best, isn't it?"

The choir room was silent for a moment, then Mr. Schue added: "I think Holly's right, not about the lame thing-"

"Which is true," Holly interjected brightly.

"But," Mr. Schue continued, ignoring her, "about emotional performances. So," he went to the board and crossed out 'Sexy', then wrote out 'Emotion' in big block letters beneath it and turned to face the Glee club.

"When you guys get into your emotions, it gives us some of the best performances we've ever had. If we can do that, then we will have this competition in the bag. So! Assignment of the week! Get into your emotions and find what songs you need to do. And then at the end of the week we'll choose the performances we'll have next Friday. When you come back Monday I expect at least a plan to be made. Got it guys?"

* * *

"Finn?" Kurt's voice was a little bit higher than usual.

Finn frowned and turned to him.

"I'm still mad at you," but his voice didn't really sound mad so Kurt looked at him for a moment then moved into his room and sat carefully on the edge of his bed.

"Can I talk to you?"

"I thought you only talked to Sam and Puck," Finn muttered resentfully, looking back to his computer screen and moving his hand to his wireless mouse, clicking hard on something.

Kurt swallowed down the urge to snap at Finn and instead brushed hard at the knees of his jeans.

Finally, Finn sighed angrily and pushed away from his desk, spinning in his desk chair to face Kurt.

"What do you want, bro? Huh?"

Kurt pressed his lips together, scowling at his lap.

"I get that you're mad-"

"You bet I'm _mad_ , Kurt," Finn interjected furiously. "I'm your brother and I keep trying to be there for you, but I'm not so sure you're my brother, since you don't want to talk to me, you barely look at me… Of course I'm mad! I keep trying and trying to be there for you, and you just keep talking to the Suck crew and I'm tired of putting in all this effort for shit squat, alright?"

"Finn," Kurt murmured, and drew in a breath. He couldn't do angry right now. He'd made up his mind on this.

"I'm ready to talk now."

"Well, maybe I don't want to talk right now," Finn groused, but he didn't seem like he meant it, and Kurt glanced at his step-brother after a moment, and Finn sighed and shrugged up from the chair, moving to sit beside Kurt on his bed.

"Okay, talk. I'm listening."

Kurt looked over at him and smiled weakly.

"Are you sure?"

Finn nodded.

And Kurt drew one more breath, before he plunged ahead, fronting with:

"Promise not to tell."

And, of course, because they were bros and because Finn was pretty sure he needed to know whatever it was Kurt hadn't told him, Finn acquiesced. Anything if Kurt would tell him.

So Kurt did.

And Finn listened.

* * *

One week later, a spot light came up on Mike Chang on stage after the Warblers finished a rousing rendition of Pink's 'Raise Your Glass'.

Slowly the music began and Mike slowly began to unfurl from his kneeling position, quivering on the floor as off stage Rachel started off the song:

" _I did my best to notice when the call came down the line; Up to the platform of surrender, I was brought but I was kind; And sometimes I get nervous When I see an open door. Close your eyes- Clear your heart...Cut the cord._ "

As she sang the rest of New Directions marched in, with Tina stepping forward and offering Mike her hand, pulling him up as the first verse completed, in time for him to stare out at the audience, then begin singing himself, spinning Tina against him as he did so.

" _Are we human? Or are we dancer? My sign is vital; My hands are cold- And I'm on my knees Looking for the answer: Are we human? Or are we dancer?_ "

Tina matched him in high soprano on the last question then smiled and spun away, taking over smoothly as he watched with a grin of his own.

" _Pay my respects to grace and virtue; Send my condolences to good; Give my regards to soul and romance- They always did the best they could_."

" _And so long to devotion-You taught me everything I know,_ " Artie shrugged in, just in time for Tina's voice to fade and the lights to find him, rolling across the stage in his chair. " _Wave goodbye, Wish me well… You've gotta let me go."_

" _Are we human? Or are we dancer?_ " Rachel asked, and Quinn answered, sashaying between the boys, " _My sign is vital. My hands are cold._ "

" _And I'm on my knees, looking for the answer,_ " Santana's voice welled up, Brittany moving fast toward her, dancing with every other member of New Directions she met on her way, until her voice joined Santana's just as she reached her: " _Are we human? Or are we dancer?_ "

" _You've gotta let me know_ ," Kate added, voice blending seamlessly with Brittany's then rising, as she moved from Sam to Finn to Puck, then fell toward Rachel, who steadied her, one hand gripping her arm as they turned to face the audience, the rest of New Directions slowly turning as well.

" _Are we human? Or are we dancer?_ " Mike asked again, and Tina held his hand as her voice joined his once more. " _My sign is vital; My hands are cold._ "

" _And I'm on my knees, looking for the answer,_ " Sam crooned out.

Then, the entire group as one: " _Are we human or are we dancer?_ "

Almost immediately, the music switched and the group rerouted itself as the girls led a chorus of _Miss Independent_ by Kelly Clarkson combined with _This One's for the Girls_ by Martina McBride, and the boys spilled onto the wings of the stage to grab the stuff for their last number of the night.

Finn drew a breath, tucking his stool under his arm and peeking from behind the curtain into the audience, taking care to stay behind the blue tape set out to show them where not to stand to avoid being seen.

Kurt was there.

* * *

"I'm going to kill him," Finn said harshly. "Dude, how could you-"

"Finn, stop," Kurt interjected, looking hard at him.

"I just don't understand," And Finn really didn't seem to. Kurt hadn't seen him look this young and lost and angry since everything had happened with Quinn and the baby.

It should have probably made him regret telling Finn, but he didn't. He'd needed to get this off his chest to someone who wasn't just conveniently around, and while Finn could be a jerk and a bit slow on his best days, he still had a good heart, and he'd never stopped wanting to be there for Kurt through all of this, even if he hadn't actually been.

Of course, this didn't prevent the ache of having one person in the know of just how pathetic he'd been, and just how completely damaged he was.

"Kurt, whatever it takes, we can fix this," Finn's voice was urgent and suddenly brighter.

Kurt just shook his head.

"There's nothing to do, Finn. It's in the past."

"What about the cops?"

Kurt glared at him from red-rimmed eyes.

"No," he said definitively. "It's too late for all that now, Finn. There's nothing to do. I just wanted to tell you everything, and now you know alright? You're a member of the club. Yay."

"Kurt…"

But Kurt just arched a brow, and said a gently but firm, "I'll talk to you later", and left the room without a backward glance.

Finn would have gone after him, wanted to actually, but Kurt's words were still ringing in his ears with their scary finality. A lot of what Kurt had told him had left him confused, even more had left him angry, and all had left him desperate to be able to do something.

But all that his head was stuck on now was the tone of his last few sentences, and the resignation.

Kurt was many things, but resigned? Well, sure, with the dumpsters, but… They were brothers. He needed to do something to fix this. And if it wasn't telling Burt, then…

Then Finn would do what Finn did best.

He stood to shut his bedroom door and picked up the phone to call Sam and Puck.

He had an idea for Regionals.

* * *

Finn, Sam, and Puck exchanged looks between themselves, then the rest of the glee guys as the girls' song finished to a standing ovation.

It was time to do something right.

The lights on stage blacked out and there was a shuffle as they moved in stools, Finn grabbing the microphone and bringing it over to his spot, sitting nervously. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was his last chance at a lot of things.

Finn closed his eyes and swallowed.

Then, he opened them again and found Kurt in the crowd and smiled a little tightly.

"This is for Kurt. I think he needs it, and I know we need him. So… here goes."

He cleared his throat and behind him, Puck, Sam, and Artie together struck the first chord as light faded in slowly over them.

" _This world will never be what I expected, And if I don't belong…Who would have guessed it? I will not leave alone everything that I own to make you feel like- it's not too late. It's never too late._ "

Slowly, Finn stood from his stool, picking up the microphone and bringing it back to the front of the stage then moved back toward the rest of the group, moving quietly between the web they'd formed, the guys all seated, the girls swaying staggered between them.

Mercedes and Puck teamed up to take over, with the rest of the group harmonizing slowly. " _Even if I say 'It'll be alright', still I hear you say you want to end your life. Now and again we try to just stay alive. Maybe we'll turn it all around- 'Cause it's not too late. It's never too late."_

" _No one will ever see,"_ Sam added alone, " _this side reflected,"_ Puck and Finn's voices joining in the refrain as: _"and if there's something wrong- Who would have guessed it? And I have left alone everything that I own to make you feel like It's not too late; It's never too late._ "

" _The world we knew won't come back-_ " Mercedes belted, sorrow coating her voice.

" _The time we've lost, can't get back-_ " Rachel was on it, making every note count (since she was getting so few), and her eyes found Kurt's in the audience and there was something like apology there, and something like 'See, Kurt, I can sing less for you- I can do a lot of things. You're our friend. Please come back. It's not too late to come back'. She didn't know the full story, no-one seemed to other than Sam and Puck and her boyfriend who was refusing to say a word on his "oath as a brother". But Rachel knew emotions and she knew music and she knew that this song, for whatever reason, meant the world.

So, she gave it her all, even as the rest of the group's voices joined hers for their finish.

" _The life we had won't be ours again._ "

" _This world will never be what I expected, and if I don't belong…_ " Rachel's voice rose powerfully over the verse, and then melted back with the rest of theirs, Mercedes's and Finn's taking control, with Sam, Puck, Artie, and Santana the most notable and emotional of their backup, words falling raw from all of their lips.

" _Even if I say it'll be alright, still I hear you say you want to end your life. Now and again we try to just stay alive, maybe we'll turn it all around 'cause it's not too late- It's never too late. Maybe we'll turn it all around 'cause it's not too late, it's never too late. It's not too late! It's never too late._ "

And then the stage went dark and the audience was silent for a long moment.

New Directions held their breath, and, despite himself, in a seat somewhere in the middle of the fourth row, Kurt did too.

The room, though, slowly unfroze, and the auditorium positively filled with applause.

In his seat, Kurt was still for whatever reason holding his breath, but he clapped right along with them. He couldn't have not.

His head was still pounding with that song long after the competition was through and New Directions had won.

* * *

David Karofsky didn't get a chance to hear it, though he was in the halls that night.

The doors to the auditorium were closed, and the sound in the room isolated from journeying past.

He'd driven all this way, meaning to go in. Meaning to at least do something.

Instead, he meandered aimlessly over the campus and deleted texts to Kurt before they could send, every one of them growing angrier as he did.

His hands were jammed deep into his pockets when he wasn't texting, smoothing over the cool metal as if that could give him courage to just go through with it.

But he couldn't.

Finally, he just went home, but as Kurt Hummel inside grew warmer, something in David Karofsky became completely cold, even more so than the look his mother cast him, or the words on his facebook. And he tucked the cold anger and hurt somewhere deep inside, let it go into hibernation. When it came out, he would be stronger than ever.

And, for him that night, it became too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song credit(s):  
> New Directions-- "Human" by The Killers.  
> ND Girls-- "This One's For the Girls" and "Miss Independent" by Martina McBride and Kelly Clarkson respectively.  
> New Directions-- "Never Too Late" by Three Days Grace.


	19. Cycle of Violence

" _It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world."_

_-Chaos Theory_

…

" _There's a ripple effect_ _i_ _n all that we do. What you do touches me_ _;_ _w_ _hat I do touches you_ _."_

                                                                                                         _**-** _ _Anonymous_

_****  
_

* * *

The Monday they came back after Regionals, Kurt rejoined New Directions first thing in the morning.

He was slushied less than three minutes later, but couldn't really find it in himself to be mad.

It sounded strange, but it felt something like being welcomed back home.

Across [campus](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/19/Vibrato), David Karofsky was also slushied, but it felt more like an embrace of personal Hell, the welcome of the inferno.

David was at a complete loss. He'd never been in a position like this before. He'd lost everything.

If it weren't for the hatred and rage coiling an iron grip over his heart and gut he would have surely felt himself dead.

But the fire in his veins kept him going, if resignedly. He was a freak. A monster. Disgusting. It was what he deserved in the first place.

He needed to [deal with](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/19/Vibrato) it.

But that didn't stop the fire from growing, daily.

* * *

"So, we hit some bumps last week, but guys, think: not only," Will Schuester had rarely looked more pleased with himself than he did now. He kept on. "Did we win Regionals by a landslide-" There was a [cough](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/19/Vibrato) of 'three votes' that he didn't seem to hear. "But we also regained a member, and then I also got a request this morning to join by another! Come on in, Blaine Anderson!"

Blaine Anderson ran in, grinning, and slapped hands promptly with a few of the guys and Santana.

Rachel was staring at him in apparent horror, then, shrilly to the entire room she demanded: "Does the name Jesse St. James mean nothing to you people?"

"Shut up, dwarf," Santana said monotonously from the row above her. "What'd you transfer for, Betty Warbler?"

Blaine laughed a little, though he looked a bit uncomfortable under the bravado.

"I know I was beaten at Regionals, so I completely understand if you guys want me to sit out of competitions. I'm not here for that. I just… I guess I realized that, watching your performance, I might have a lot of friends in the Warblers and be in a good position of power and everything, not to mention that it's an amazing school… but I envied the freedom you guys seemed to have. Not to mention how personal it was. We just do top forties songs we think will score us some points with the judges, make us relatable, and that we can easily choreograph our swaying to. It's great, but I wanted to see what else was out there. I only have one year left of school after this, after all."

He laughed again some, and there was a moment of silence before Rachel huffed out a: "…Fine. I approve. But I do think he should sit out of competition. He can be our own little Cheer-glee. Get it?"

Kurt snickered some despite himself.

"As I told you this morning, Blaine, you'll have to audition. But I'm pretty sure you'll get in." Mr. Schuester winked and gestured for Blaine to take a seat, which he did, Santana and Brittany scooting over, the former with a smirk, so that he could take the seat by Kurt.

Kurt's hands tightened their clasp over his knee, but he forced himself to shoot Blaine a smile, then turn back, trying to subtly scoot to the opposite edge of his chair.

He may be a little bit better than he had been, with Finn, Sam, and Puck all backing him up and Dr. Wineberg letting him come in once every other week almost entirely pro-bono and completely on the sly. Still, he didn't want to expand this circle of people who _knew_ \- not any more than he had already- and all the fears and hurt were still there. He didn't need yet another person he had to see however many times a day interrogating him about everything that had happened when, more than anything else, Kurt really just wanted to move the hell on. He wanted to pretend nothing had happened. David didn't exist.

Of course, he _did_. But Kurt really didn't want to think about it.

Unfortunately, having Blaine and "courage" and Santana of Lima Heights aggressive politics around and together would probably end up complicating his present plan of denial- a plan that was actually going markedly well before this. With the help of Finn, Puck, and Sam, Kurt hadn't had to see Dave once. He'd barely even heard about him. And while this was, at the edges of his mind, worrying… It was also helping.

He really hoped Blaine would just drop it, but somehow doubted that would happen. And of course the other boy was as Disney-like dashing as ever.

Kurt had tried handling everything with Dave, and where had that gotten him? Here, was where, and with the odds more stacked against him than they'd ever been before. So, this time- he wasn't going to handle it. He was going to ignore it.

He was completely fine.

Everything was.

"Alright! So, Nationals," Mr. Schue said, and Kurt focused on that, because it was the most important matter at hand. There was nothing to worry about anymore outside of song selections, and maybe Santana and Blaine, who were already talking, Santana looking devious as ever. Song selections.

He sighed inwardly and forced himself to concentrate on recalling all the insults he'd ever heard Principal Sylvester direct toward Mr. Schuester. Thank god there were so many. He didn't think of Dave for the rest of the afternoon. It helped that…

"Since things didn't really work out with Ms. Holiday and the benefit concert last week, but we did manage to secure a sizeable donation from Mr. Ryerson, I think it's time to switch our focus away from funding. Now, your guys' singing and acting at regionals was amazing, but your dancing… it's booty camp time!"

There was some collective groaning from a few members, while others immediately began murmuring excitedly.

"I for one have been taking dance lessons since I was in diapers and am more than willing to assist in teaching this class," Rachel spoke up, to an increased round of groaning plus a few muttered insults from one Santana Lopez that she ignored promptly, smile wide.

"Actually, Rachel, I think I'd like Brittany and Mike to help me out. But I do appreciate the offer."

The two mentioned immediately stood, beaming, while Rachel's grin faded and her arms slid over her chest.

"Fine. Well, I can be a team player," she informed them crossly. "I'll just outshine the rest, as usual, but that's alright."

"Can it, Schozzy," Santana called out. "Let Britt have her moment."

"And Mike," Tina spoke up, smiling at her boyfriend. "This is great for them."

"We start after school tomorrow!"

* * *

David's mind was a whirl of hurt and rage, anger making his tongue taste sour, the pain of everything making his head pound.

His grades, which had been falling these past few months rather steadily but never once ventured over the precipice into failure, had plummeted and plummeted fast. He had almost all F's, and couldn't bring himself to care in the slightest, even as his last two semi-decent grades slowly declined toward the same fate as the rest. His teachers faces were disappointed. He'd been kicked off the football team, after having to deal with Beiste giving him this look of concern, as if the coach actually gave two fucks about his pathetic existence. All it told him was that she knew (which, of course, now everyone did).

He wasn't sure if he hated himself or Kurt more for that.

It changed between the two every day.

Everywhere he turned, there was no escape, and he wouldn't let there be in the first place. He was so goddamn furious, all the time, and he barely knew what he was doing anymore.

His sleeping habits oscillated between him not sleeping at all and sleeping for anywhere between eleven and fourteen hours straight, and it was surely messing with his mind as well. Dave was completely on the fritz. Which only made sense, of course. All of his old friends _hated_ him.

Luckily his parents hadn't really found out yet, but Dave was sure they would, and the terror of the constant wait only increased his bitterness tenfold.

If Hummel had just kept his mouth shut. If the singing freaks hadn't interfered. If he wasn't some kind of fag monster. If Principal Sylvester didn't clearly favor Hummel over him. Everything was wrong, and it was all their fault, and maybe a little his, but that barely mattered, because David was also past caring about himself by far. The only thing keeping him from hanging himself or something was the rage washing his insides in fire.

He didn't know anything anymore outside of the fire.

Hell was inside him.

It made sense of course. Added an all brand spankin new level to 'Fags burn in hell'. It might have been funny if it so completely wasn't, but he laughed anyway, pushing a weight far above his head, sweat beading his brow, exertion soaking his shirt. He tried to concentrate on the steady burn of his straining muscles, the way his breath was choking in his chest (the way it would with a noose around his neck- _he clenched his eyes shut, but the image of that stayed even in the dark of his tightly closed eyes, seared into his corneas, his brain, his everything_ …). His skin darkened, growing mottled; his pulse throbbed in his ears and head; his neck tightened; his arms trembled. At the last second he let the dumbbell fall, forcing himself to drop it in its actual spot instead of just letting it collapse onto his chest.

The weight of his wrath and exhaustion and fuming hurt, though, remained behind like a dumbbell itself, crushing in his diaphragm, his ribs, lungs, heart.

He wanted them to feel that. He wanted them all to feel that same weight. To understand. To simmer and burn alive in the same way he was.

He took a deep breath and forced his arms up, gripping the dumbbell with sweaty, slippery fingers, and, teeth gritting, lifted it again, relishing the physical agony that ripped through him: exactly what he deserved, and what they all did.

* * *

"Kurt."

Dr. Wineberg was looking at him, or looking through him. One of the two. Kurt scowled, craning his neck backward a moment, then forward again, the glower on his face fixed and impatient.

"Yes?"

"You asked to be here," Dr. Wineberg reminded him, voice nonchalant. "You wanted my help, and I'm offering it to you. I'm not going to lie to you, Kurt, and I don't think you really need me to."

Kurt resisted the urge to roll his eyes, annoyance surging through him, and tightened the crossing of his arms over his chest.

"Maybe," he said slowly, eyes darting between staring at his arms and peeking up at the therapist's face, "you're wrong about this though."

Dr. Wineberg, instead of reacting with anger or exasperation, simply nodded once and steepled his fingers once again. He was always doing that.

Kurt swallowed and met the therapist's gaze evenly as the man began to speak, his manner extremely deliberate.

"I might be wrong. It's always a possibility. But, I'm also trained to know human psychology, and to recognize that denial is very rarely healthy in anything but the short term. You said you've already told three people, correct, outside of myself? Your stepbrother, Finn, and Puck and Sam."

Kurt nodded.

"And that's a good first step. But I told you, Kurt, that if I believe there is any danger to you at risk, I'm forced to tell someone. And I believe that keeping this a secret may well be putting you in danger. The boy who-"

"I don't want to talk about him," Kurt interjected, looking firmly at him. He drew a sharp breath. "I'll be fine. I have three huge overprotective jocks stalking me now."

"I'm worried," Dr. Wineberg said quietly, his voice becoming gentle as was his habit, "because that boy's nature seemed extremely volatile, Kurt. And I don't want to push you past what you can handle, because that won't do anyone any good, but I also have to take into account that this Karofsky boy is from what I can tell markedly unstable. And when he erupts, I don't want to see anyone caught in the fallout, because it will be bad. If you go to the police, they can at the very least talk to the young man's parents, and it might be prevented. Of course, I don't likely know every detail, and I don't know how he's handling anything right now. I don't know enough to be certain of any prognosis here. But I do know enough to say that the truth can't afford to wait much longer."

Kurt stared at him, then, after a moment, slowly let his joints unfold ever so slightly, and gave another nod.

"Can I give you some homework?"

"You know, I already have a school."

"I do."

Dr. Wineberg looked a little amused in his own blasé, distant way, and Kurt smiled a bit, the expression fading as fast as it had come.

"What is it?"

"I don't see you again for almost two weeks, so, by the time of our next appointment, I want you to have told at least your dad and Carole about things with David. I don't mean a play by play," he continued, holding up a hand when Kurt opened his mouth to strenuously object, arms regaining their prior tension and then some. "I just want you to give them basics. And then, you need to let them take it from there, because they are the adults, and it's important that you not be having to deal with taking care of all of this yourself. Alright, go ahead."

"I don't need to…" Kurt trailed off, blinking, and pressed his lips together. "If I don't, then what?"

"Then I will be forced to report my concerns to the authorities myself," Dr. Wineberg informed him calmly, looking a little grieved but very sure. "If I didn't firmly believe that it was important for you to take this step yourself, I would have been on the phone with the police weeks ago, Kurt. But I do believe that, so I'm giving you until our next visit. And when you come next time, it will be with at least one of Burt or Carole, so that I can be sure you've done what was asked. Alright?"

Kurt's eyes were cold and sharp, but resigned.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Yes," Dr. Wineberg replied calmly. "You do."

"Really? Because it doesn't seem that way," Kurt scowled, and Dr. Wineberg half-pursed his lips, leaning back in his chair.

"That's fair, and I wouldn't expect it to. But, you do have a choice- it's just one you don't want to make. And I'm sorry to put you in a position where you have to choose a direction on this, but it's important that you do. You can't progress and get better and get past this if you pretend nothing is wrong and do nothing. And staying stagnant in an unhealthy place, telling yourself that it is healthy, isn't going to make it actually healthy. And on that note, I do believe our time is more than up, so I'll see you in two weeks."

Kurt stood stoically and swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat.

"Will I be seeing you with your dad or step mom during our next visit?" Dr. Wineberg asked gently, but firmly as they left his office.

Kurt didn't know, but he nodded anyway.

He'd have to.

He just really, _really_ wished he didn't.

Dance rehearsal was tomorrow.

* * *

"I still can't believe you broke your girlfriend's nose," Puck snickered to Finn, eyes focused on the television screen where his character was preparing to bodyslam Finn's guy from the ropes of the ring.

Finn just groaned, pressing hard on his controls trying to get his character out of the way before Puck could…too late. Puck released a yell of triumph and extended a hand to both Sam and Artie for a high-five as the game announced "three" and K.O. popped up on the screen.

"I can't believe she might be getting plastic surgery on her nose instead of her boobs," Artie volunteered and Finn gave him a half-hearted glare, whining "Du-uude!".

"Hey Kurt, man, you joining us?" Sam asked as Kurt opened the door, rolling his eyes at the question.

"I have Algebra two homework."

"So? You hate math," Finn announced and both Artie and Puck shot him grins.

Kurt groaned but went to the armchair beside the couch and perched himself on the side.

"I also need to make dinner. When's Mike coming over?"

"He's not," Puck informed him. "Since he and Tina made up and made out today, he's over at her place getting some."

"I didn't want to know that," Kurt muttered, but the guys ignored him.

"You don't have to make dinner tonight either," Finn added as an afterthought amidst chomping on a mouthful of cheetos, tossing his controller to Artie, who caught it neatly and cast him a wicked grin. "Burt left us money for pizza before he and mom went out."

Kurt yawned.

"So-"

He was cut off by the sound of the doorbell and frowned at them.

"What was that?"

"Blaine's here, probably," Artie told him offhandedly and Kurt semi-yelped.

"We invited him."

The pride in Finn's voice faltered in his expression when Kurt's glower fell on him.

"I thought you liked Blaine?"

"I do," Kurt said irritably, causing a chorus of 'ooh's to rise among the boys, a flame of anger and embarrassment washing the tops of Kurt's cheeks at the sound.

"Shut up. I'm going to my-"

"Hey guys I let myself in if that's alright! I also locked the door behind me. You guys might want to do that too, just so you know" Blaine called from the hall way and Kurt groaned falling back into the armchair, managing to straighten his back and focus the blazing blue of his eyes on the game instead of the doorway before Blaine made his appearance.

"It's cool! Come on in! We were just talking about you," Finn gushed and Kurt shot him an angry look before returning his eyes to the screen, feigning disinterest in the boys around him.

"All good things I hope," Blaine joked, before glancing over and saying: "Hi, Kurt."

"Hi."

Kurt's voice was a little frigid, the word short. Finn frowned again.

"Can I talk to you Kurt?" Artie asked after a moment, not waiting for an answer before he started moving, since he and Kurt both pretty much knew one wouldn't be needed. "Sam, guard my controller. You guys call in for the pizza while we're out! I'm starving!"

Sam nodded easily, taking it from him, and Kurt reluctantly followed Artie into the kitchen.

"You know, if you like Blaine that's not really the best way to ask him out," Artie said nonchalantly once they were there, Kurt sighing in response.

"I don't want to ask him out."

"Then, what's up with you?" Artie asked after a moment. "I know we've never been that great of friends, but…"

"How are you?"

Artie seemed taken aback a moment before he nodded, quickly regaining his bearings.

"You don't want to talk about it. Okay, that's cool. But, you know, I'm here. And I know Britt may have dumped me, and so did Tina-"

"Yeah," Kurt's voice started off cutting as ever, but softened. "That's what I meant. How've you been?"

Artie's brow furrowed, and he grimaced.

"Same old, I guess. It sucks. I loved her and everything, but… I should have seen it coming. I did see it coming, actually. So it's stupid to be upset over. I just wish I had someone I could go to Prom with."

"She and Santana are pretty definitely going," Kurt agreed after a pause. "I hear they're planning something with it on Brittany's web show."

Artie groaned and rubbed a palm bracingly over one of the arms of his wheelchair.

"…Blaine seems like a good guy," he told Kurt. "I think you guys need to talk though. Like, even more than me and Britt do."

Kurt scowled but nodded anyway, and they looked at each other a beat before Artie drew a breath, silent understanding that the conversation was over passing between them before Kurt reiterated his algebra two homework and Artie recalled that he was starving and they went their separate ways for the night.

Still, if grudgingly, Kurt knew Artie was right on at least a few counts.

But there was a problem with his logic, and it came to the fact that he really didn't understand the full situation.

"Kurt?"

Kurt glanced up from the homework he wasn't doing to see Sam giving him the same look Artie had in the kitchen before they parted. He raised a brow.

"What is it?"

"You do like Blaine, don't you? I can't tell. I know you used to, but…"

"I'm not sure," Kurt admitted, his voice harsher than he meant it to be, and Sam entered, sitting down on his bed.

"Can I tell you something and trust you not to tell anyone?" Sam asked abruptly, and Kurt stared at the sound of the other boy's voice cracking.

"What's wrong? Look, I didn't mean that to sound like it did…"

"It's not that…" Sam swallowed. "I think we're about to lose our house."

"You what?" Kurt's voice was high and incredulous and Sam shot a worried, damp look at the still open door. Kurt moved quickly up to close it, sitting beside Sam on his bed.

"My dad lost his job," Sam confessed, voice rough. "And my mom isn't earning enough to... It looks like we're going to lose our house. And I don't know what to do. I'm trying to find a job, but it's harder than I thought it would be. And my little brother and sister need taking care of, and of course there's been all this stuff with _you_ , which I don't blame you for, but… I wasn't going to tell anyone, because I'm not asking for pity here, but I figured that if you could put yourself out there about the stuff with, well, you know, then I could…you know. I have a job now delivering pizza, but it's not enough."

Kurt took a few moments to find his voice, remembering with sudden clarity his dad's heart attack and the stack of medical bills that had come with it, his own ever-growing anxiety over what was going to happen. And when his mom had been in the hospital herself, and then when she died. The bills had been piled so high, and he remembered clear as a bell overhearing his dad and Uncle Andy talking about his dad's worry that they might lose the house, that he wouldn't be able to handle the mortgage by himself and that the autoshop might be more than he could handle right that moment, even though he had to run it. The overwhelming terror of where to get the money for living was so much.

Sam had been looking more and more haggard lately. He very clearly needed a haircut and his clothes seemed a little more ratty than they once had. His expression was different, and his complexion had once been much cleaner… In retrospect, it was so obvious, and.

Kurt had been adding to it, and he suddenly felt even more horrible for letting Sam and the others in on what had happened to him than he had already, even though he knew that there was no way to back out now. He just needed to think of anything he could do to help and do it.

"I can watch them sometimes," Kurt told Sam quietly, his voice suddenly steady and sure. "And I'll see what I can do to help-"

"I don't want charity," Sam spoke up, and Kurt nodded because he knew that feeling just as well.

"Look around, Sam. Do you know how many expensive things I practically throw away? My mom left me a ton of money in savings bonds that her parents had left her, and my aunts send me a ton more on a regular basis. If there's something I can do instead of waste it, I'll do it."

"We don't even know for sure we're losing it yet," Sam explained, looking at him, his breathing slowly regaining normalcy, and the red of his face fading. "It could be fine."

Kurt nodded.

"It could be."

It didn't feel like they were just talking about Sam anymore. It felt like both of them

And unfortunately, the same could be said for both of them in that they each knew but didn't want to believe the same thing; they could say they were fine and that things would be okay as much as they wanted, but it wouldn't change the truth of the matter, wouldn't make the sentiment feel or be any less a boldfaced lie.

It was just another measure each of them was taking as they struggled to survive.

And one that, though neither was willing to admit it, was doomed to fail.

* * *

Operation Barbara Streisand was a success, as Kurt knew it would be. And now, here they were on stage and Miss Pillsbury-no-longer-Howell was apparently joining them in being born this way, but the celebration to Kurt just felt like a lot more fake.

Pretending was harder when you knew it was what you were doing.

* * *

David cleared his throat and slowly dropped into his place at the dinner table, avoiding his parents' eyes as he tried to act as if he didn't know something felt off, and as if they didn't either.

He really didn't think he could handle another locker room, but it certainly felt like that was right where he was and what was happening all over again.

"David…"

His dad's voice was strained.

He didn't bother looking up from the table, focusing maybe a bit too much as he cut a chunk of brisket and dumped it unceremoniously on his plate.

His dad's eyes were on him. His mom's weren't.

She, like him, had her gaze trained firmly to the plate in front of her, chewing slowly.

"Your mother had a lunch date with Renée James today. When were you going to tell us what's been going on?"

Paul Karofsky's eyes on him were equal parts sad and incredulous and David's heart dropped.

"With what?" he asked finally, eyes flitting up to land on his dad's, dark and beseeching, then returning to his food.

He cut a piece of the brisket because completing the action felt nice for some reason and chewed slowly in the silence, his mother still doing the same.

"You know I have no problems with the gays, David."

Dave stared at his food a moment, then swallowed his brisket heavily and picked up his plate.

"I'm just going to finish this in my room and go to bed. I have a lot of homework. Goodnight."

"David," his dad called at his retreating back, but Dave kept going, the last thing he heard before he closed his door and locked it behind him his mother's quiet, but firm: "Paul, don't. Let him go."

Instead of continuing to eat, Dave logged into facebook and checked his wall, then his friends'. There was a new comment thread, on a picture of him with the guys, his image defaced with a dick on his cheek, 'cocksucker' and 'queer' in bright red over him. He'd been untagged in any of the pictures he'd been in with any of his friends, but not all of them had gotten around to defriending or blocking him. Yet.

He stared at the picture a while, read a few of the comments, then swallowed again the knot that seemed unwilling to leave his throat and forced himself to exit out of the window.

He fell asleep crying against his will after punching a hole in the door of his closet, but the rest was uneasy at best and he found himself at two in the morning inside his closet and pulling down bins of pictures and other memorabilia.

He spent the rest of the night x-ing out faces, both his own and those of his once-friends, trying to make the anger inside him fill the hole in his chest, but even as the throbbing feeling of fury inside him grew, the hole seemed only to get bigger, and it was just a stupid circle he was running in, but really what was one more when he couldn't stop cutting out heads and making vicious red-x's.

David wasn't going to bother fighting it.

After all, the fire was now officially his only friend, so he might as well let it burn him alive.

He was fine with that.

As long as he got to take down this whole goddamn town in ashes down with him.

* * *

April Rhodes had always had the absolute worst and best timing, Kurt thought irritably.

Fortunately, the only person she was messing with at the moment was Mr. Schuester, but Kurt was sure that there had to be more to her visiting than some weird fascination with Mr. Schue, and he was dreading the drama that would come with any reveal, because really they already had more than enough drama of their own.

He was trying his hardest to be there for Sam, and since Quinn had found out she was, too, but it didn't help that Kurt was also trying to keep his own head above water, as well as find a way, _any_ way, to tell his dad and Carole about everything with Dave… Nothing was working, though. He just couldn't get himself to do it.

He was beginning to worry that he wouldn't be able to at all and Dr. Wineberg would do what he'd said, which was something that even more Kurt really just couldn't have.

It was funny that the one time he really wanted, needed maybe even, Blaine's 'courage' text again, the other boy had stopped texting him altogether.

Kurt understood though, of course. It was what he'd been asking for in the first place, and he couldn't begrudge Blaine giving up when Kurt had done so himself. But he had found that where he'd thought he needed alone time to manage, it was only making it all worse for him.

Because of the apparent bond sharing secrets had evidently instilled between himself, Sam, Puck, and Finn, Sam had also finally told the other two boys today, after Kurt's millionth tired reassurance that they'd see him no differently. Which of course they didn't. But now, again reasonably, they were all plotting various money-making schemes, and it was allowing Kurt to slip away more and more often. Kurt wasn't sure if that should have made him happy, since the guys were irritating more than not, but for whatever reason it didn't.

Nonetheless, he did try to absorb himself in doing what he could for Sam, letting it distract him whenever possible. He'd already managed to sell numerous of his older articles of high fashion that he didn't bother wearing anymore or that he'd outgrown in his growth spurt last year, and by taking ten dollars from every sale he was able to give the rest of the money to Sam without either of them feeling too bad about it, especially since he had Sam do the packaging on any shipments and help him with customer dealings and such.

Puck and Finn were with Rachel right now, supposedly, Kurt was guessing to clue to her in and get her help as well, and Sam had left right before last period with a written permission to pick up a few extra hours at work.

It was the first time Kurt had been really alone in school since he'd told them and it was a weight in his lungs no matter how much he told himself he was fine.

It wasn't like the _guys_ had left him alone... He'd actually been with Mercedes before she remembered a make-up test she had to take for her history class, and now here he was, and against his will he was terrified.

Kurt wasn't sure if he should try to find Finn and Puck (they were probably in the choir room- they were _always_ in the choir room) or if it was better to wander around until they texted him asking where he and Mercedes had gone. It wasn't like he couldn't handle himself or anything, but… He just didn't know. He thought it was probably better that he was able to be alone anyway since Puck and Finn and Sam couldn't be his bodyguards forever and he really wouldn't want them to be in the first place, but at the same time-

Kurt's train of thought was cut short by the sound of footsteps and then the voice of one Azimio James saying: "It's Hummel…"

"You turned my best friend," Azimio had moved in fast at the sight of Kurt, clearly furious.

Kurt rolled his eyes as dramatically as he could at them, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart in his ears.

"I know you'd love to believe that," he informed them, doing his best to keep his voice nonchalant, with just a hint of an edge at the ready to cut them if they went too far. He was an excellent bluffer. "But your best friend wasn't turned any way. He was always this way, and you just didn't know it."

"It's those jedi mind tricks," one of the guys said loudly. "Brainwashing."

"Seriously?" Kurt asked them, an eyebrow arching.

"He's right," another voiced and Kurt pressed two fingers to his temple in exasperation.

"What do you guys want from me then? Don't you have slam-dunks to not make or something?"

"Touchdowns."

"As if there's a difference," Kurt muttered, and Azimio got closer, one hand landing on the cuff of Kurt's shirt.

"Look, fairy, I don't know exactly what you did to make Dave like you, but when I find out…"

The threat hung unspoken in the air, but by now threats were nothing new to Kurt and he was pretty sure they could do nothing worse to him than what Dave himself had done, do he simply pulled himself loose and pushed Azimio away from him.

"Hello gentlemen! Kurt! What's going on?"

Rachel. And behind her Finn and Puck were moving forward, expressions dark.

No matter his previous thoughts, Kurt wasn't all that glad at the sight of them. They both looked furious.

As if this had needed any more drama.

And Rachel was wearing one of her most hideous skirts as well.

He'd need to burn that later. It might be time for another diva-over with them and Mercedes… It had been too long since they'd had one, and clearly Rachel's fashion sense was taking another dive without his influence.

The jocks scowled but dispersed, muttering homophobic insults at all of them as they left until Puck shoved at the group and two collided sharply with a row of lockers.

"Where's Mercedes?" Puck barked toward Kurt immediately, and Kurt crossed his arms.

"She had a make-up test. I was just coming to find you guys."

"Yeah well, you should have come faster." Puck said after a beat, most of the menace gone from his voice now, then: "I swear that wasn't me coming onto you. …Why do I keep saying that word?"

Finn laughed loudly and reached for Kurt, pulling him into one of his awkward bro-hugs, then pulled away and took his girlfriend's hand.

"Rachel's got a way to help Sam."

"My dads are very influential," Rachel announced. "And they haven't gotten to do much since they took on the neighbor's noise complaint. But one of my dads is a lawyer and he knows how to manipulate situations like this. Sam's dad will probably have a new and better job by the end of the week."

"I don't know why we didn't think of it before," Finn exclaimed, grinning, and Kurt nodded slowly, impressed despite himself.

"Speaking of my dads, though, they're here to pick me up," Rachel sighed, looking at her phone. "They want me to hurry, too! Ooh! It's a spontaneous concert night! I've gotta go! Bye!" She kissed Finn quickly goodbye, then hugged Kurt and waved to Puck, taking off down the hall.

The moment she disappeared around the corner, Puck turned back and smacked his hand to Kurt's shoulder, the younger boy automatically pulling back and rubbing at the spot, glaring at back.

"What was that for?"

"You know you weren't coming to find us," Puck retorted irritably. "You were facing the opposite direction from the choir room."

"I was considering it," Kurt scowled at him. "And I don't need to be babysat."

"Clearly you do," Puck shot back. "What if that had been Karofsky, huh princess?"

"Don't call me that."

"Why?" Puck's voice was mocking and it only made Kurt's irritation with them greater.

It didn't help the situation that it felt like Puck was right. Kurt _had_ gotten into a bad spot, and the first time he was really on his own in school, and what had happened to his old self-sufficiency because he was really starting to feel like he'd been rendered completely powerless and completely broken by David and… and, just to make it worse, he could feel Dave again as the emotions washed over him, could feel and see and hear him as if he was right back where he'd been.

And now Puck was calling him princess.

Dave had done that too.

Kurt drew a breath and let it come out as a shudder.

He'd felt like he'd had everything handled, but clearly he didn't if he was so pathetic that he had to be guarded in the first place, and this was just all proving that while he might have gotten away from Dave before things went all the way, he hadn't really gotten away from him.

And he was just starting trouble now for his friends too, drawing them into his mess.

Kurt wanted nothing more than to be able to rewind back to who he once was, because he didn't feel like the same person at all anymore, and he'd hoped privately that maybe this could be an opportunity now that he was away from David and he'd been on his own as he'd once been for the first time to prove that he could be that same Kurt Hummel, the one who'd felt strong, who was whole, who only needed himself to rely on. And he'd failed.

It was all so ridiculously…unfair. And Kurt knew that sounded childish, but it also felt true, and he hated it.

He couldn't afford to keep failing, though, that much he knew.

He also couldn't afford to keep being reminded of Dave and everything that had happened with him by his friends when all he wanted and all he needed was to forget.

"Because it was one of Dave's nicknames and I don't like it," he snapped harshly, and Puck went to snap back before seeming to realize what had been said and wincing audibly.

"Sorry," he muttered after a minute, voice low, and Kurt's gaze rose toward him, softening at the sound.

He'd done it again.

"Noah Puckerman apologizing," he said snidely nevertheless, and Puck glowered. "Wow. I'm so impressed."

"Fuck you, Kurt. Don't be a bitch," Puck shot back tersely. "Let's all just go."

"Fine," Kurt replied sharply.

"Fine."

Finn just looked between them a moment, then cleared his throat.

"So…aren't we leaving?"

Kurt rolled his eyes.

"Yes, we are."

He fished his keys from the front pocket of his messenger bag and led the way to his car, thoughts still rushing.

He kept telling himself these things, and they just kept feeling like lies, and it was driving insane if he wasn't there already. His complexion had certainly gone to hell, or felt like it had anyway, and he just didn't know or understand how he was supposed to make these wounds better.

"Hey, dude."

"What is it, Finn?" his voice sounded crabbier than he meant it to, by a lot actually, and Finn seemed to half-falter, but plowed on anyway to Kurt's relief; he didn't particularly feel like apologizing.

"You're seeing Dr. Dinner, right?"

Dr. Dinner, meaning Dr. Wineberg. Finn had told Sam and Puck about him and somehow they'd unanimously decided Dr. Dinner was a perfect name.

Kurt was pretty sure they were all secretly doing drugs, but whatever floated their boat would probably get it pretty far away from his, so he wasn't about to sink what got them moving.

"Yes," he affirmed tersely, pulling himself into his car and waiting for the two meatheads with him to climb in and buckle themselves in, both automatically after the million and one times they'd each been lectured as to why Kurt would kick them out of the car if they didn't, before turning the key in the ignition.

"How's that going?"

Puck was using his 'I-really-don't-give-two-fucks' voice, but there was a definite undertone of genuine care that might have earned him at least something of an apology had Kurt been in a better mood.

But he wasn't, so it wouldn't.

"I go again the week after next."

"That doesn't actually answer my question," Puck groused and Kurt glanced up to roll his eyes at the other boy's reflection in the rearview mirror.

He hesitated before admitting:

"He told me if I don't tell my dad and Carole about what happened before the next appointment, he'll tell them for me. And tell the police."

There was silence for a long stretch of time, and then when they were roughly a minute from the house Puck cleared his throat.

"Is that really such a bad thing?"

Kurt's eyes on the road steeled, as did his voice when he answered, though his throat briefly contracted and his knuckles on the steering wheel were even whiter than usual for him.

"Yes."

"I'm not so sure," Puck informed him, his voice hard and dripping frustration.

"I'm with Puck," Finn volunteered after another tension-filled beat, sounding a little less nervous having safety in numbers on this one.

Kurt just really didn't want anyone else to know. He was already ashamed enough.

But…

"It doesn't matter anyway," Kurt bit out, the words directed toward himself as much as them. "I obviously have no other way out. I just need to be able to _do_ it."

"We can help you," Finn exclaimed abruptly and Kurt parked the car and turned it off before he turned to face his step-brother with the full force of his glower.

"I don't need help. I can still do some things myself, you know."

"Well, yeah," Finn agreed awkwardly. "You can, but didn't you just pretty much say you were having trouble?"

"Duh he's having trouble," Puck barked, opening the door harder than necessary and earning himself a glare as well. "You know, Hummel, I'm just getting really sick of doing these circles with you."

"Then don't," Kurt retorted sharply, unlocking the door to the house and taking care to make the motion angry without risking damaging the wall behind it or anything.

Anger was no excuse to damage his and his father's excellent paint job.

"No," Puck snapped back, entering behind him but without taking the same care, much to Kurt's further annoyance. "I'm in this, whether either of us like it. I'm here. But it's just fucking old how you don't get that you can ask for help on stuff like this. It's not your goddamn hill to hike alone or whatever the hell it was that you said that one time. You're not too fucking good to need help sometimes, clearly, so man the hell up and ask for it."

"Did you just tell me to man up?" Kurt asked shrilly, eyes piercing, and Puck just shook his head.

"Get the fuck over yourself, Hummel. Just get over yourself. You've already told us and the Dinner dude, so if you can't handle telling the story yourself again then realize that that's fine and we get it and you have people around to help tell it with you. You're only alone because you choose to be at this point. Like today. You could have found us, and the whole thing could have probably been avoided, but you're just too good to do that huh? And too fucking dumb, I guess, too."

"Are you done?" Kurt snapped, and Puck stared furiously but silently for a few seconds at him, before scowling and crossing his arms, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table.

"Yes."

"Good." Kurt drew a deep breath, letting his eyes close.

"Then…I need help. Is that good enough for you? Are you satisfied? I don't think I can tell my dad and I don't want him to know and I know that I need to but I am terrified. I feel like I'm still stuck in a horror movie, and the villain is like inside me now or something, and I don't know where I'm supposed to go from here, but I do know that my dad can't know. He can't. I can't."

"He can and you can." It was Finn who spoke up this time, and Kurt glanced at him.

The jock looked half-sheepish and half-determined, and Kurt found his respect for his step-brother feeling oddly higher at the sight.

"You can do anything Kurt. What happened to defying gravity and all that stuff? Isn't that what that's about?"

Not really, but for the first time today Kurt held his tongue.

Maybe sometimes it might really be good to ask for help, because Kurt really just didn't think he could do _this_ alone. Other things yes, and he didn't want them being any more invasive than they were already, but he felt sick to his stomach at the very hint of thought of his dad and… He needed their help. He really did.

And maybe that could be okay? He was helping them, too, wasn't he? Or Sam at least. And Finn. Finn's vocabulary had improved since their parents' marriage, and his taste in food and clothes alike had definitely improved. He ate healthier, too, even if he wasn't quite up to par in Kurt's book yet. And Puck.

He and Sam and Artie had been circulating helping Puck with class stuff.

It wasn't a big deal for Kurt, since lately he took distraction where he could get it and while he despised their excessive attention to him when it wasn't on his own terms, he was still him, still Kurt, and he still enjoyed getting to show off his talent and skill.

Still.

It was something, right?

Kurt was certainly not the only reason behind all these things, but maybe he'd really helped. Maybe they could then help him. Maybe it wasn't all as bad as he thought. Maybe that was just the David in his head, the part telling him how pathetic and weak he was and that nobody could know, nobody could ever know. David had picked at the parts of him like that until they became open wounds, gaping holes inside him, and he'd filled those holes with himself, leeching away at Kurt like a parasite. The thought of Karofsky inside him made images flash through his brain and momentarily overtake his corneas, bringing him back to those moments in that basement, to the musky air and the filth and the need to escape.

He'd escaped.

He was here.

He couldn't let Karofsky win.

And maybe that was what he'd been doing. Just playing into the seeds of Dave planted inside him.

He looked at his hands, examined them, and drew breaths like it was going out of style, head whirling and still all in one.

"We'll help you." Finn's voice was too loud but there anyway, which was good.

Puck's eyes on him were dark and serious. Determined.

"It won't be just us," Puck said at last, and Kurt swallowed a lump, not sure if the lump was good or bad, just that it was. "We'll all figure it out, man. Get a plan of action going. Just know that we have your back."

And, somehow, even if he wasn't sure when that trust had happened, he did.

Of course, people always forgot that all you had to do to lose the war getting out of hell was look back, and that Hell certainly didn't let its captives go that easily.

The dawn might be darkest before the day, but that didn't stop the darkness returning to chase the light back away.

* * *

David Karofsky swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat as he slowly wrapped up the cord of the vacuum cleaner preparing to put it away.

For the first time in years he'd begun to meticulously clean his room.

He reached out and touched the suit hanging in his open closet the way a child would a security blanket.

After prom, he told himself. Just to see. Just to have that one last moment, that equivocally high-school experience, before. After prom.

The only things he'd touched as tenderly as the cuffs of the suit were the gun Kurt had had him hide away and maybe like his letterman and stuff.

He might have regretted that he'd never really, genuinely given Kurt that much if he didn't hate the other boy. It was all Kurt's fault he was here in the first place. All of it.

Not that it mattered.

The variables had already been stacked, and they were all stacked against him, and he was done.

After prom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks the beginning of Hell Arc, Vibrato's second story "arc" (if you will) that spans from here to chapter 22. This arc contains the major climax and I'm warning everyone now to hold onto their keyboards because things will only get worse from here on out.


	20. Eric's Mask

" _It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world."_

_-Chaos Theory_

…

" _There's a ripple effect_ _i_ _n all that we do. What you do touches me_ _;_ _w_ _hat I do touches you_ _."_

_**-** _ _Anonymous_

_**P.S. Don't say I didn't warn you- Hell Arc takes off this chapter and that broad trigger warning is seriously all caps guys. Welcome back to Vibrato.**_   


* * *

Kurt really, really wanted to go to Prom.

And he knew it made no sense- Puck, Sam, and Finn reminded him every five seconds, too, just to hammer the point home. As if that would change anything about his decision. As if it should.

He was Kurt Hummel, or at least he wanted to be again if he maybe wasn't one hundred percent back yet… And Kurt Hummel didn't need to make sense, and he certainly didn't back down from something just because it might be dangerous, or, even more, because the people around him didn't approve.

David had taken a lot from him (too much). He wasn't going to get to take Kurt's junior prom. And there was no way Kurt could let Karofsky believe for so much as one more second that he'd won- that he'd stolen Kurt's _ability_ to go to prom, that he'd stolen Kurt period. He didn't get that.

"There's always senior prom, and it's just a stupid dance anyway," Puck reminded him yet again from where he was slouched into their armchair, Finn nodding along, and Kurt rolled his eyes- also again.

"There is senior Prom, and I fully plan to go. But this is Junior Prom, and I also fully plan to go to this."

"They're exactly the same," Puck snapped, and Kurt glowered.

"They are not," he objected adamantly. "They're completely different experiences, Puck. Now, will you hand me that math textbook since you're clearly not going to use it, and stop trying to convince me not to go already? It's not working."

Puck grudgingly chucked the textbook at him and Kurt caught it evenly, clucking his tongue and no longer bothering to so much as glance at Puck as he spared him an almost-stern 'thanks' and nothing more.

Puck's teeth gnashed together and his fingers tugged at his stripe of hair.

"I'm taking you though, Hummel, got that? Strictly bromanc-ial and non-gay and all that crap, but you gotta stick with me if you wanna go to it."

"Unless he's with me," Finn interjected and they both made sure he saw how dumb the statement was in their expressions.

"Finn, you'll be with Rachel the entire time," Kurt reminded him. "If you aren't she'll murder you."

"True…"

"Exactly," Puck said dismissively and Finn frowned.

"But what about Sam?"

"What about Evans?" Puck sighed back, looking irritated.

"Well, he might want to hang out with you guys too."

"Duh," Puck shot back and Kurt shook his head at his math homework, fighting the urge to take his math textbook and his science one from the desk and throw one at each of their stupid swelled up heads.

"Do I need to take you two for some Kurt Hummel retail therapy?" he asked loudly, and they both turned looks of aggravated horror on him. "Besides," Kurt continued, putting on an air of condescension that had both of their eyes rolling, "I told Sam he should just ask Mercedes already, and that she'd work with him probably when it came to his money trouble, so I'm willing to bet he'll be on her arm most if not all of the night. And if he isn't I'll be forced to give him a very major makeover that I'm pretty sure he'll hate."

"What is it with that guy and my exes," Puck muttered crossly, and Finn shot him a grin before standing and moving from the room with a swift explanation of "Bathroom!"

Kurt ignored his step-brother's exit in favor of continuing his argument with Puck.

"Shut up, Puck. Mercedes and Sam both deserve to have a great Prom date, and that's what they're getting. Anyway, you know I can handle going stag if you want to chase being the king to Quinn's queen again, or hit on Kate in front of her boyfriend some more."

"You are not going stag," Puck retorted fiercely, voice abruptly hard. "How stupid are you Hummel?"

"Which of us is actually doing our homework, Puckerman?"

"Homework is for wusses."

Kurt arched an eyebrow over his math homework at the jock and Puck looked away, concentrating his gaze on the blank television screen.

After a moment more of Kurt's skeptical gaze on him, Puck scowled and spoke up bitterly: "Look, we both know it's a long shot for me to even graduate next year with the rest of you guys, so there's no point trying to do stupid math I suck at anyway. It doesn't fucking matter."

Kurt stared, his brow creasing and eyes melting a little.

"Puck-"

"Guess who's back?" Sam's voice erupted into the air, Finn's enthusiastically echoing from the hallway as he emerged from the bathroom: "Back again!"

"Will the real Slim Shady please stand up?" Kurt asked with something of a smirk twitching at the corners of his lips.

"I'm already up," Sam responded instantly, to which Kurt and Finn lapsed into fits of mirth and even Puck was unable to restrain an upward twitching of his lips.

"Sam, do we need to have another talk about the number of ways that you're not Eminem?"

"If the shoe fits, then I'm going to wear it," Sam pronounced, reaching forward to grab a handful of doritos.

"You're also not Cinderella," Kurt informed him with a grin.

"Hey, now," Finn joined in. "You can be Cinderella if you want to Sam! We won't judge you!"

"Kurt would have no place to," Puck volunteered abruptly with a mean smirk.

The guys all looked at him.

"Not cool," Finn informed him lowly.

"What? Kurt can be a bitch and I can't be just because he was all moles-" He stopped himself short, looking a little contrite, but too late.

Finn glowered and Sam's eyes focused just a little too hard on the bowl of Cheetos in front of him. Kurt simply let his eyes slide closed, shutting out the world a moment.

Was this the type of thing he should expect his whole life?

And, perhaps more importantly, was this the sort of reaction he should be anticipating from his dad and Carole, if not worse, when he told them as well? Would his dad avoid him, walk on eggshells, wear constant kid gloves? Would it be his identifier to them, like it seemed like it was with Puck and Sam and sometimes even Finn? It already felt like he was wearing a huge sign on his forehead declaring his damage to the world…

Would his dad only be able to see that sign once he knew? Only able to see Kurt the victim, not Kurt the son or the talented, determined kid who was going somewhere? Kurt himself could barely see past the first part most of the time these days, so how likely was it that his dad would? He was so blinded when it came to Kurt, really… Kurt doubted a lot of things, but the love between himself and his dad was one that he never did, at least not in the past few years; and that love made it so that when either of them was hurting that hurt was all the other really saw. Would his dad be so consumed with the realization of what his son had experienced and his inevitable anger with himself over not being able to stop it that he'd somehow stop being able to see _Kurt_ behind all of it?

Kurt drew a short breath, a flurry of panic stirring in his gut at the thought.

He didn't think he could handle that.

How was he supposed to?

He'd just… maybe he'd just put it off a little longer. He could tell them before the appointment this coming Wednesday. It wasn't like a few more days would kill anyone, and it would be great getting a few days of fun and quality time between Prom and everything.

They'd have at least one more weekend whole, then, before they were all torn apart.

Kurt nodded to himself, the decision made and instantly set in stone. Wednesday after Prom and before his appointment was definitely the best time to tell them.

In the meantime, though, Puck was being a complete freaking jerk and Kurt was _so_ not in the mood to deal with it.

"I'm going to call the girls and see if they're up for a prom shopping trip and movie night since it's been a while and I'm clearly not going to be getting my homework done. In the meantime, maybe work on getting new personalities. I'd really appreciate it."

They watched him stalk from the room, Sam standing to walk after him and peer down the hallway at his retreat before turning back to Puck and Finn.

"What's up with Kurt exactly? I mean other than what Puck just said…"

"He's pouting because he has to take Puck as his date to prom," Finn informed Sam promptly, to which Puck leaned over and socked him in the arm, while Sam dropped to the couch again, laughing.

"Can't blame him then," he told Finn, smirking, and Finn waggled his eyebrows at Puck, who grimaced in turn,

"If you asswipes are ready to stop giggling like girls, I've got a plan."

Finn's grin at Puck became a frown, his eyebrows drawing together.

"Um, dude? What plan? For Prom you mean? Cause we all just came up with that plan before Kurt left like two minutes ago. Where have you been?"

Puck rolled his eyes and popped a few knuckles, leaning back and looking between Finn and Sam like they were complete idiots.

"Wasn't the real plan, dumbass."

Sam snorted and rolled his head back, cracking his neck, while Finn scowled.

"Don't call me a dumbass. And what do you mean that wasn't the real plan?"

"I mean," Puck retorted, slowly enunciating, each syllable exaggerated, "that it was not the real plan." He paused. "Or the whole one at least," he allowed, voice regaining its usual speed.

"Let's play nice," Sam called out, grabbing an open bag of Cheetos off the table and pouring several into his mouth.

"It's not play time; It's go time," Puck told them seriously, and they lapsed into derisive snorting at the words while Puck just scowled some more.

"Seriously. I have a bad feeling about Hummel's plan to go to the prom. I say we make a prom patrol."

"Hell yeah. It'll be like cops!"

Sam stared between them.

"Come on guys… A prom patrol? What are we- in an episode of Mad Men? _It's Bond, James Bond_."

"Shut your mouth, Sean Connery. Now, I was going to spend Prom making sure the punch gets its punch like usual- if you know what I'm saying- but I had to cancel that because not only is Kurt stupidly going to Prom, but I also found out Karofsky's planning on going."

"With who?" Finn practically snarled. "I thought the school was against him now. This is so unfair to Kurt. It's bull."

"It's stupid," Puck said, voice grim. "But it's the way it is. Now, we could try to stop him street style but my pro-b officer says if I get caught doing anything anywhere near against the law I'm back in juvie. And I'm not going back. So, instead I think we just keep guard. And if anyone tries anything, we need to be on their ass like white on rice. I'm gonna try and get Artie and Mike to help out too, without giving them the full story. Artie's like a jedi in a wheelchair, and Mike's got some Jackie Chan moves I'm sure. But with Karofsky, plus everyone else, there's no way this Prom's only drama is going to be the Quinn-Rachel catfight we're all waiting for, or Santana and Brittany taking the titles and power-tripping out while Quinn gets ready to kill everyone."

"I'm in," Sam said after a moment. "If anything, it can't hurt. But I asked Mercedes to go with me today and she said yes, so I still want to be with her most of the night."

"Do we get code names?" Finn asked Puck. "Cause I want to be something really cool. …You know I'm in, so…"

"Yeah, sure," Puck said briskly. "A'ight. I'll get us walkie-talkies and stuff too. It'll be real legit."

"It's just a good thing we're not singing at Prom or anything," Sam mused aloud.

"With Sue as principal she'd never let us."

"True," Sam agreed with a grin. "Okay well-"

Finn's phone started ringing some Broadway junk song and all three guys stared at it for a minute before Finn mumbled, "Oh…I should probably get that…" and picked it up, hitting the talk button.

"Rache?"

He paused, listening, then frowned.

"You're kidding, right?... Jesse?... As in Jesse St. James?...What did he say?—No….No. … whatever. I hate that guy. …Yeah, alright. I'll see you tonight. Love you too. Bye."

Finn made a face at his phone as he hung up, then turned a scowl toward Puck and Sam.

"Apparently, Jesse St. James is back in town, and wants to hang out at our Prom."

"Prom Patrol," Puck reminded him. "He pulls anything-"

"Hey, guys…" Sam interrupted. "Jesse St.- who, exactly?"

* * *

The bad thing about girls- and the reason why Kurt had mostly avoided them recently- was that they were really, really perceptive. Mostly.

Well, okay, not completely perceptive. A lot of them were fairly self-involved (as Kurt himself was, he allowed… And the guys. They were pretty much all kind of self-involved when he thought about it)… But the girls picked up on emotional cues far more often than the guys, and picked _at_ them even more. So, they were definitely perceptive enough. More so than he liked, at least at times like this.

Mistake one, then, was making the choice to hang out alone with any of them.

Mistake two was also inviting Santana, who then went behind his back and invited Blaine.

Go figure.

And the girls now had all traipsed off to the dressing rooms together, saying more than a little suggestively that now was the perfect time for Kurt and Blaine " _to finally talk_ ".

Girls.

Things like this made him glad he was gay…

"So…" Blaine cleared his throat awkwardly. "How are you?"

Kurt shot him a sideways look.

"Fine," he answered noncommittally after a moment. "…How about you?"

"Oh, you know… Okay. I heard you were going to Prom?"

"I am," Kurt affirmed, his voice steely, defensive. "Why?"

"Is that really a good idea?" Blaine was looking anywhere but him now and Kurt felt his irritation rising. Why was everyone so against him having a good time for once? Why did it seem like they expected him to just take everything lying down? To let anyone or anything stop him from doing the things he wanted to?

"I think so," he responded, more than aware of just how bitchy he sounded and completely unable to care.

"I know, but Kurt," Blaine shot him an unreadable look. "You don't know what could happen."

"I do actually," Kurt sniffed indignantly back. "But I'm not about to let a 'what if' stop me. What's your point, Blaine? Aren't you the one always going on about courage?"

"There's a difference between courage and stupidity," Blaine muttered, then glanced at Kurt. "I didn't mean that. At least not in a mean way."

"Are you sure about that?"

Blaine's eyes flipped down to the stone surrounding the penny-fountain they'd decided to wait for the girls by. He reached out and stroked his thumb meditatively over the shiny surface.

"What happened to us?"

"What?" Kurt frowned, caught off guard by the question.

"Just… we're different. I feel like we were just meant to be something and we were going toward it and we were completely derailed and now the tracks are different and…"

"You're getting a little carried away with your metaphor, Blaine," the rebuke was surprisingly gentle, given that two seconds ago Kurt's tone had been at knife-level sharp.

Blaine swallowed, moving forward to sit on the fountain's ledge. He patted the space next to him after a moment and Kurt slowly conceded, lowering himself gingerly onto the stone and casting the water and rock a dirty look. These jeans were designer. He would have requested moving their conversation to a bench, but that would actually probably be worse in terms of filth, sad though that was.

Instead he settled for glaring at the dirt, as though his withering look might make it actually burn away.

"Kurt?"

"Blaine?"

Blaine curled his fists against the stones, eyeing the pennies glinting up from inside the water.

"We could have been more, couldn't we?"

"More…how?" Kurt's voice was careful now, unsure.

"Just more. We were best friends, but we're not anymore are we? And looking back, we could probably have been each other's first boyfriends too…"

"Probably," Kurt murmured, staring at his hands, heart in his throat. "You liked me then? As more than a friend?"

"I still do," Blaine said honestly. "But, it's different now, isn't it? We're changed, Kurt. Don't think I can't feel it. And do you actually think you could do the relationship thing right now?"

Kurt's brow furrowed.

"No." His voice was low and displeased but very sure. And then: "Blaine? I want to tell you something, but it's only if you promise you won't say anything to anyone else and you won't get upset."

"I can't promise either of those things, Kurt" Blaine sighed, staring still at the water and the wishes glittering sunken beneath.

Kurt drew a deep breath.

"Please?"

"I'd love to listen," Blaine told him quietly. "You know that. And I've been asking forever to know what's going on. But I won't promise not to tell anyone."

"What if I say I'm going to tell everyone soon? So, you'd only be waiting for me to take care of it."

Blaine hesitated, then: "No, Kurt. I have a feeling once you tell me it's not going to be something I'll be willing to keep secret even for today, whatever it is. So, if you really don't want me to say anything, don't tell me. I can't know. No. What I can talk about with you is us, and you, and everything that's happened and everything that's wrong, without the specifics."

Kurt nodded.

"You're the only person who's told me not to tell them, you know?" he asked rhetorically, frowning a bit. "Why aren't you going to Prom?"

"For one, I'm a sophomore, so I can't go to the Junior Prom unless I'm brought," Blaine reminded him easily.

"I always forget that you're a year below me, despite being five months older," Kurt smirked, then the expression faded. "You said for one?"

"Well… The last time I went to a dance," Blaine cleared his throat. "It just- let's say it didn't turn out so well…" he shrugged and gave a pained looking simper. "It's not something I like to remember."

Kurt nodded.

"Oh. That makes sense I guess."

"You avoid pianos, I avoid dances," Blaine murmured to the pennies and rippling water of the fountain.

Kurt averted his eyes again.

"Point taken."

Blaine's phone vibrated and he flipped it open to unlock the screen and open the text, scanning over it.

He smiled slightly and looked sideways to Kurt.

"It's Santana asking if we're done with our lady chat."

"Of course," Kurt snorted, rolling his eyes and rubbing a palm over the leg of his jeans. "Do you think we are?"

"Not really, but I don't know where to go from here."

Kurt glanced at him.

"Later, maybe, then? There's time, right?"

"Of course."

Blaine texted Santana back and they sat a moment before Kurt spoke up again.

"So, you and Santana? You're really friends then. Isn't that a bit… I don't know. Will and gay Grace?"

Blaine laughed.

"Don't let her hear you say that. And she's certainly interesting. Only more interesting person I think I've ever met is you. And maybe Brittany."

"Brittany's the winner of the interesting contest for me," Kurt agreed with something of a conspiratorial grin.

Another beat of silence passed before Blaine gave him a small smile and offered his hand, standing from the ledge of the fountain.

"Things have calmed down a lot," he offered. "They seem like they're finally getting something near okay again. So, you never know. If it keeps up, maybe we can get back on track, like whatever happened that messed everything up never happened at all."

Kurt smiled back, but there was something that stirred in his gut at the notion, some beast bearing fangs in the back of his mind.

Kurt wanted with everything he had to believe that, and he partly even did.

But why did it suddenly feel like some part of him was screaming, lit on fire?

Maybe it really could all be recovered. Maybe he really could heal over completely, to the point where both the scars and the things that had cause them disappeared. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Another effect from his Karofsky time.

Kurt focused on a scarf in a store window and went to look at it with Blaine as they waited for the girls to find them, hoping that Blaine would be right and things really would be fine.

* * *

"Hey, Kurt, I have a really important question for you, and I need you to give me the honest, honest to God truth. Okay?"

Kurt turned slowly to face Brittany, eyebrow arched.

"I'll do my best, Britt. What's up? Did you have a different dress option you didn't want Santana to see or something?"

"Oh no. Santana's seen all my dresses and undresses. It's not that. Just… I was watching X-files last night like Artie and I always did and it suddenly hit me what's really been going on with you this whole time." Her face was serious, voice hushed: "Kurt, were you abducted by aliens?"

A second eyebrow joined the first and they stretched up together toward his hairline.

"Um…"

"It's okay if you were. I was too. You're totally not alone, Kurt."

"Um…Thanks Britt. I appreciate that. I guess."

"Good."

"…"

"…"

"Did the probing hurt you?"

Kurt's forehead scrunched up.

"Britt, I love you boo, but I don't think I can really dignify that with a response."

"Their tools can be really sharp," Brittany said sympathetically, and Kurt swallowed and simpered at her as best he could.

"Yeah, Britt, why don't you go find Santana?"

"I just left her," Brittany informed him serenely. "We had sweet lady kisses and it was great, but I wanted to make sure you were okay, since I've been suspecting for a while that you were abducted by aliens and that's why your quills have all been out to poke people."

Kurt stared at her for a long moment, then hoisted up his messenger bag on his shoulder and moved it to hang closer to his chest, one arm going around it to keep it tight against him.

"Are you mad at me?" her voice was abruptly troubled, and her eyes a bit harder. "Cause if you're mad at me it'd be really unfair. It might be a very porcupine way to feel, but that doesn't make it ok."

Kurt's eyes widened marginally and he leaned a little more heavily against the wall at his side, fingers tightening further over the strap of his messenger bag as he did so.

"Brittany, I'm not…"

He faltered.

"That's just s-…"

Exhaling, Kurt sought the right words and came up short. He floundered a moment that stretched like forever while Brittany waited with an ease he was tempted to envy, and still no response came, not even a derisive one.

He just didn't know how to really talk to Brittany anymore, did he? He hadn't for a while now.

And it hurt to think that, but the second that he did he knew beyond a freckle of a doubt that it was just as much true as it was painful, if not more. But, thinking about it, Britt was simply everything that he didn't know how to be anymore, every part of himself he could no longer find, and he could hate it all he wanted, and he did, but that didn't make it any less true.

The truth really freaking sucked…

But there it was anyway, and there was nothing for him to do but look right back at it and nod.

"I'll do my best to stop," he said finally, the words settling in the air like a veil.

They both blinked, and he gave her a strained smile to which she replied with a bright one of her own.

"Coolio. I'll see you at Prom, then, right?"

"Of course."

"Just don't get abducted again Kurt," Brittany smiled, touching his shoulder lightly, and then she turned to gather her things and he swallowed.

"I'll try not to be."

"Salt helps," she called back pleasantly. "I'll see you later, then, Kurt!"

They parted ways, each leaving the classroom from a different door and the sound of their leaving echoed a heartbeat in the sudden stillness of the room before it, too, went away.

* * *

On the day before Prom, in an effort to prove to himself that he didn't really have to be as effected and changed by everything that had happened as he'd been, Kurt went to the bathroom during school.

It sounded stupid, he was fully aware, but he'd been avoiding the bathrooms at school, at least unoccupied by his friends/stalkers, ever since he'd outed David and thereby incurred on himself a huge increase in hatred from both the ex-jock's ex-friends who believed with determined certainty that Dave's gayness was Kurt's fault and, of course, Dave himself. It was both his rule and that of his friends, one of the few they'd been in agreement on, and the first he was compelled to break.

He'd been thinking about how, if he really wanted to believe things were as fine now as he'd been telling himself, he'd need to brave something and show himself how stupid he was being. And then as he was heading to Glee his neglected bladder announced its displeasure with him and oh hey, what a great time to be passing a bathroom.

The halls cleared out fast as students went to start getting prepared for the weekend and prom festivities ahead of them, and the bathrooms were mostly avoided at the end of the long school day for obvious reasons, so it felt something like easing himself into normalcy, and even if it seemed stupid, he worked to keep his chin up and the reassuring thoughts going.

And it really was okay.

Which, yeah, perhaps stupidly, made him feel amazing.

He could be okay.

Maybe Dave had changed less than he'd realized.

But then just as he was preparing to go wash his hands, there started a wave of laughter outside the door.

Kurt focused on the faucet, working to stave off any unease, reminding himself of _stupid_.

The door opened and he kept his back as straight as possible, jaw tight, as Azimio James's voice announced to the room and his friends outside "Oh, hell to the no. It's Hummel."

The guffawing stopped and two others joined Azimio in the bathroom, staring at Kurt, who stared at himself as well, eyes of sleet reflecting back eerily.

"What are you doing in here fairy?" Pete Welklin's voice was rough, his hands deep in his pockets.

"What does it look like?" Kurt asked the mirror, rolling his eyes and smoothing at his bangs.

They could screw themselves.

"It looks like you're using the bathroom," Azimio observed loudly.

"Congratulations on finally developing some basic deductive skills," Kurt sneered.

"My bathroom."

"You own a school bathroom?" Kurt snorted. "Just because you're in here more than you're in class does not give you a deed to the room, unless you've decided to spend your allowance on that instead of the usual bucket of porn."

"Just get out, Hummel, before us real guys gotta make you."

"Go make out with Karofsky or something,"Strando spoke up. "Since you two clearly have the hots for each other."

"Ew," Kurt retorted derisively, but at the sentiment his face had flushed with both anger and humiliation, memories washing over him and dragging him under, and the boys mistook these for embarrassment over real feelings and grinned wolfishly at him, even Azimio.

"We'll see you at Prom, homo."

Kurt rolled his eyes, but walked out anyway, trying to convince himself that that all hadn't meant a damn thing.

And it hadn't actually been that bad, really. Not compared to what he was used to.

Still, Kurt didn't think he'd be returning to the boys' bathroom alone again any time soon.

It probably wasn't worth the fit Finn and Puck were going to throw anyway.

But at least he'd tried. And someday he'd try again. These days he was living on somedays, so, he figured, what was one more on the list?

* * *

"Jesse freakin' St. James," Finn cursed. They were all waiting for Kurt to get his ass downstairs before they went to pick up Prom Dates and all that crap, and while they did Finn was venting about Rachel and Jesse St. James. Again.

Puck wouldn't be listening, but there was nothing good on tv and Sam's dorky imitations of movie stars could only block out so much babbling.

Besides, it was kind of funny seeing the faces Finn made when he was pissed off.

He'd give kudos to St. James for his style if the guy wasn't chasing Rachel freaking Berry and making their prom more annoying than it had already been before the damn thing even started.

"I don't get what you're so upset about," Puck grumbled. "It's not like he was actually laying the mack on your girl, and Rachel's so dopey-in-love with you it's sick."

"Boys, you know in my day I had my fair share of trouble with the ladies as well. There was this one girl, actually right before my own prom, and every day when we- Well, actually, that's another story for another time. When you're twenty-one or something."

Burt Hummel winked at them and tilted some beer into his mouth, then cleared his throat.

"But you, Puckerman, that's not me saying you can like objectify my kid or treat him like the woman or anything like that. Understood?"

Puck stared at him.

"Mr. Hummel, I like women. Like, I really like them."

"Then why are you taking my son as your date to a major high-school dance?" Burt grinned and Puck grimaced.

"We're bromancial, not homosexual," he muttered, but at Burt's sharpened look Puck just sighed. "Yeah, okay, he's my date, whatever."

"Good boy. Now what do you guys say to watching some more of the game that was on?"

"There was a game on?"

"Mr. H, you're my favorite parent ever," Sam informed him. "Except for, y'know, mine. Mostly."

Burt grinned at him and took another sip of his beer.

"You're more polite than Puckerman," he observed, clearly amused. "If I didn't already know you were taking Mercedes tonight I'd be recruiting you to replace him. I bet you and Kurt'd argue less."

"Which reminds me, actually, that I have to head out if I want to take Mercedes to Breadstix before prom starts," Sam sighed, standing.

He bumped fists with the guys and waved to Burt, then moved to the stairs, saying that he wanted to let Kurt know he was heading out.

"Speaking of Kurt," Puck spoke up grouchily, watching the base of the staircase up which Sam had just disappeared, "How long does it take to put on a kilt anyway? You'd think he'd be taking less time with something you can probably just slip on than his paint-jeans."

"He actually is," Burt smirked. "Though I gotta say, if I didn't know there was no way he was gonna change his mind about this thing now I'd be hoping he's taking longer because he'd chosen not to do the kilt."

"You're telling me," Puck grumbled. "Making our job that much harder."

"Job?"

"We're making sure nobody messes with Kurt," Finn informed Burt nonchalantly.

Burt frowned.

"That's good, but don't get yourselves into trouble. If you go in there all hopped up you'll just be putting a fire under a pot when it's already boiling. And I don't want either of my sons getting burned. Or you Puckerman. You hear me?"

"Loud and clear," Finn replied brightly, while Puck just grunted his acquiescence.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs had both boys turning, while Burt flicked on the tv again, but when they saw it was just Sam they turned back. Finn waited a few moments, staring at the screen, then stretched out his leg and nudged Puck with his foot.

"You should go yell at Kurt."

"Me? Why me? You're his step-brother!"

"And you're his date," Finn said cheerfully. "Besides, I'm getting Rachel in a few and there's a game on and stuff…you know."

"What is with your mood swings lately? Have you and your girlfriend synced periods or something?" Puck asked derisively.

Finn waved him off, focused on the tv.

"Nah, we don't start that until next week."

Puck rolled his eyes and stood, chucking the pillow from next to him at Finn's head and hitting him square in the face before he headed up the stairs, now smirking.

He didn't bother knocking, letting the door's noisy opening be his version of an alarm system.

Not that he needed it.

Where was…?

"Kurt? Man, where are you?"

"What do you want Noah?"

Puck frowned, staring around the still empty room.

"Where are you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Um…Yes? Duh. We gotta go, dude."

"I know."

Kurt sounded frustrated. Puck frowned.

"Seriously, where are you Hummel?"

"If I tell you you're not allowed to make any comments," Kurt stipulated with an edge to his voice that had Puck eyeing the door behind him.

Kurt didn't scare him, of course; he was the biggest bad-ass in the universe. But he really didn't want to deal with the bitch-Kurt he would be if he sincerely pissed Hummel off.

"Yeah, whatever, just tell me, Kurt."

"I'm in the closet."

Puck snorted despite his promise not to.

"You're really so not."

"Screw you," Kurt snapped and Puck smirked, moving toward the closet.

"Well, it is Prom, so I think that's kind of a requirement."

"Seriously, Puck, you're being more homoerotic than me tonight," Kurt retorted as Puck opened the door. "Actually, make that most nights."

"Fuck that, I'm a sex shark that shops only in the seahorse section."

"What does that even mean?"

"Seahorses the girls don't get pregnant. Nature's birth control- the guys are the ones carrying babies and stuff."

"Uh-huh," Kurt muttered dryly and Puck scowled down at him.

"So, mind explaining the closet? Did you tear a seam in your corset or whatever?"

"I'm not wearing a corset to this dance. And it's nothing."

"Uh-huh," Puck mimicked back at him, and Kurt threw him a nasty look as Puck sank down next to him anyway.

"What's the box for?"

Kurt's brow furrowed and then he sighed, rolling his head back against the wall.

"I need to get rid of it."

Puck paused, watching him carefully a moment before:

"Is it a dead body or something? Cause I'm pretty sure that'd be breaking my probation."

Kurt snorted, closing his eyes.

"You're a jackass, you realize that, right?"

"But a cool jackass. I thought you wanted to go to Prom."

"I do," Kurt affirmed. "That's why I think this needs to be gone."

"What is it?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah."

Kurt swallowed, eyes opening to stare straight down at the box, almost unseeing but more seeing far, far too much.

"Some of my clothes and stuff from… There's a scarf in there. Jeans. I also put almost all the cover-up I had in there when- I just wanted it away as quickly as possible. So, I thought I'd put it in a box. But now I think the problem is that it's still here with me, and I want it gone. Is that good enough for you?"

Puck didn't reply, instead he just reached over and took up the box himself.

"I'll take care of it. Now are you ready to go or not? Breadstix waits for no man. And neither does your stupid Prom."

* * *

So far, so good.

The music was pretty bad, but the atmosphere was light, and Kurt was immediately pulled into a dance with a bunch of the girls. So, though the Prom Patrol were on red alert, everyone's guards were slipping as they lost themselves in fun for the first time in far too long.

"How do I look?" Quinn was glittering, Cinderella come to life. She had to have the vote for queen in the bag. He realized he was staring and made his eyes leave her face, not that that was much better.

God, Quinn had always had a pretty great rack and in this dress there was just the right amount…

Puck dragged his eyes back up to Quinn's face with an inward wince.

"Good luck tonight."

"Thanks," Quinn grinned. "For that and for your vote, in advance. I'm so excited. Tonight's going to mean something big, I can feel it. I'll talk to you later, Puck. I want to get in a few last-minute recruits before voting."

"Better hurry."

She smiled again and did exactly that as he watched, heart in his throat.

Puck scratched at his head and let his eyes close for a beat before forcing himself to scan the crowd of grinding bodies, searching out Kurt's form from among them.

He was standing with Sam and Mercedes by the punch bowl, Puck noted finally, nodding to himself.

He was searching out Karofsky when Brittany's lips touched the shell of his ear, whispering: "What's going on with you Puck?"

Puck raised an eyebrow and stared at her a moment, then shook his head.

"What?"

"Why aren't you with Kurt? You're his date."

"Brittany, you know how much I like women."

She smiled.

"And you know much I like them too. But I can also like boys, so you can too. I thought that was why you have such big biceps, and why you're always working on them and stuff."

"Have you seen Karofsky?" He asked, hoping to change the subject.

"Are you cheating on Kurt with him?"

Puck's nostrils flared.

"No. That'd be the sick of sick. But I do need to keep an eye on him."

"You'll be able to once he's on stage," she shrugged. "And I don't like to look at him too long, especially not anymore. He's like a big, sad bull that's been ridden too much by clowns with whips. And that's how freak accidents happen, so I don't want to be involved."

"Yeah, well that's what I'm doing is making sure he doesn't do anything bad at this Prom."

"Wait, for reals?"

"I'm always for real. I'm like the dark knight."

"You mean Harry Potter?"

"Not Harry Potter, Batman. Or Superman. I've got enough muscle and awesome to be both."

"That's true…" Brittany said easily. "Can I be someone?"

"Um," Puck was still scanning the crowd. "Sure… you can be... Aquagirl. The Tula one. From Teen Titans."

"Does she have big boobs?"

"Don't they always?"

Brittany nodded.

"Good point. Thanks Puck. I'd be a great Aquagirl. I love getting wet. But I have to go vote Santana for queen now, so I'll see you later. Good luck bull-spotting."

She slipped off as easily as she'd come, and he only shook his head in her wake.

Her words did the trick though, as he spotted Karofsky for the first time that night, his bulk awkwardly folded down in the chair by the voting.

Which was almost complete- the school watch was already counting them up.

Crap.

Puck groaned and dragged himself toward the booths.

He still hadn't decided if he should vote for Quinn or Santana.

Instead of either he just shrugged and wrote Tina under queen and Mike under king, harmless enough. This whole thing was stupid anyway. He'd feel bad for whoever ended up on the stage in plastic crowns if they weren't clearly asking for it.

When he got out he made a beeline for Kurt, who rolled his eyes when he saw him.

"Why is there a walkie- talkie hanging out of your jacket pocket?"

"Prom patrol."

"You're tacky and I hate you."

Puck simply snorted and leaned against the wall next to him.

"Can we leave yet? This prom is triple-e lame."

"After the election of Prom royalty," Kurt waved him off. "I want to watch the drama unfold myself instead of having to find out from Rachel or something."

"Speaking of Rachel, where is the motor mouth? And her boyfriend? I haven't seen either of them in a while."

"They got kicked out," Kurt informed him dully. "Fight between Finn and Jesse, and Rachel got the collateral for being in the middle of it. And now Finn and Rachel are fighting themselves."

"How the hell did I miss that?"

Kurt didn't answer, instead glancing out over the dance floor with some measure of almost wistful chagrin.

"Not living up to the dream?" Puck asked, not bothering to disguise the told-you-so in his voice.

"Well seeing as my date is both straight and an asshole…"

"Fuck you. I'm doing this all to help you."

"Yes," Kurt agreed. "And I thank you for that. But I don't want to need help. And I don't, _period_. I didn't ask for any of this."

"But you did agree to it…"

Kurt shot him a look at the way his tone suggested the words weren't just in reference to Prom.

"Don't start with me, Puckerman. I'm really not in the mood for it tonight and I'm already in the middle of a break out."

"You have like one zit," Puck sneered, rolling his eyes.

He wasn't sure where all this antagonism was coming from, only that it felt good to let out. And he missed feeling good. It wasn't something he'd really felt in a long time, if ever. Besides, he was already doing so much for Kurt, wasn't he? He was trying really fucking hard. And for what? All he was getting in return was more of the same bitchy, queeny attitude, and he was sick and tired of not getting appreciated, especially where Sam and Finn did. It was like everything with Quinn last year before Finn found out the truth all over again.

And he was Noah Puckerman, Lima resident badass, so being walked on like it felt like he was just made him more mad.

Kurt wasn't the only one feeling like shit and having a hard time and wondering where his identity had gone, and Puck was getting fed up pretending like he was.

Not to mention that Kurt was frustratingly stupid in his decisions, like the one to go along with Karofsky at all ever, or to keep any of it hidden in the first place. And now all along he'd had a stupid box that had evidence of his assaults. And he didn't even seem to see that, or what it meant. Karofsky had gotten into his head, and that fact just seemed to be getting clearer and clearer and it was just making Puck angrier and angrier at the both of them.

That was, of course, why the box was now tucked into his trunk. If Kurt really was going to tell his dad and Carole (Wednesday, he'd promised, when they asked him about it. Wednesday before his appointment with the dinner doctor), then he was probably going to wind up being able to use the junk he'd hidden away. If worst came to worst, it could continue to sit in Puck's trunk. At least it was t _here_ still, in case it was ever needed.

Not to mention that it would totally piss Kurt off if he knew about it.

"Leave me alone, Puck."

Puck scowled.

"Yeah, whatever."

He searched out Artie, instead, hoping he wasn't feeling like being incredibly annoying as well.

Their broship hadn't been getting as much time lately, with everything, and Puck missed hanging him since he was surprisingly chill and if Puck mentioned anything geeky to him he didn't comment.

But, no, because Brittany had decided to give him a dance, with Santana watching and glaring more than a little from the sidelines, and that was not a threesome he was about to get in the middle of.

Puck scowled and slouched over to where Sam and Mercedes were taking a break from dancing, dropping into a chair on Sam's side.

"This blows."

"Why don't you ask someone to dance?" Mercedes asked, looking sideways at him.

Puck crossed his arms.

"They all think I'm gay since I brought Kurt."

"Yeah, I still don't understand why you did that. He could have just joined a bunch of us in a group," Mercedes told him.

"I was trying to be nice," he grumbled.

Sam snorted at him.

"No you weren't."

"I totally was. Screw off."

"Oh, look! Vice Principal Figgins is coming onstage. They must have the Prom Queen and Prom King!"

He noticed Sam and Mercedes taking each others' hands and grimaced.

This prom sucked so much.

"Attention… Will the candidates for King and Queen gather on the stage? The votes are in."

Puck didn't even know. It would all be stupid anyway.

"...Junior Prom King is… David Karofsky?"

There was a beat before Dave moved, and a tension to the air as he did. His face had lit with something unsure and his shoulders seemed to remain hunched even as they were straightened.

A hoot rose in the air and Karofsky threw a grin toward the crowd of students almost without realizing it, instinctually reverting to his popular mode in the face of the attention, though there was something in the set of his jaw that spoke of unease.

Puck was furious.

He wouldn't have cared less if it was anyone but David Karofsky, but it was, and fuck this was just the biggest crock of shit and he wanted nothing more than to beat the ass of everyone in attendance.

How the hell had this even happened?

Karofsky wasn't even a candidate!

The cafeteria full of students stood silent, waiting with some type of grim impatience, eyes on Figgins or on Karofsky, waiting.

For the announcement of their queen.

For the outcome of their efforts and deceit.

For their joke to fully play out, and the realization of King and Queen.

They waited.

But did not have to wait long.

"For the first time in McKinley history, both of our Junior Prom royalty were chosen by a massive wave of write-in votes… So… in that spirit, your new junior Prom Queen is…"

* * *

"Kurt Hummel."

The sounds of the music and the student body faded and fuzzed together, becoming a too loudsilent buzzing, antagonistic white noise swarming in on him. His knees started to buckle, his vision narrowing.

David's eyes on the stage became wide with horror, with fury, with hate. They fell toward Kurt, whose breath caught, his throat constricting as his blue eyes took in the scene in dazed panic. Then, all at once, he began to run, fleeing toward the hallway with his hand pressed over his mouth and his stomach and throat and chest all heaving.

In the beat of stillness shrouding the room, no-one moved. No-one followed as the cafeteria door swung shut solemnly behind him. A few catcalls and whistles climbed the air, mixed with the continuing random breaks of applause. The door closed, and still no-one really moved.

Kurt went unfollowed.

And then, Karofsky slapped down the microphone from its stand so that it fell and crashed into the ground, sending a wave of pure noise through the room that had nearly everyone covering their ears, and he ran for the other exit like his life depended on it.

In the crowd, Puck's angry, dark gaze saw the movement and before he knew it he was running too, but after Karofsky, fists clenched tight and waiting and stinging to his sides. And Sam followed him. Mike and Tina pulled closer in together. Brittany and Santana made their own exit, but toward a classroom. Rachel and Quinn both found themselves in the bathroom.

In the hallway, Kurt Hummel collapsed alone, his body wracked with soundless sobs.

Everything was just so _wrong_.

He had to pull himself together though. He needed this victory. Needed it like the air he still wasn't getting enough of, his gasps ragged and throbbing. He zeroed in on the trembling of his hands and tried to hold his hurt and fury, tried to force it all down so that he could go back out and get his crown- say something pithy and perfect that would make the hurt somehow at least partly go away. He would win them over and maybe someone would step up and dance with him and-

And he wasn't going to leave these halls. Not when he'd just be walking back to David, anyway.

He wasn't going to win anyone over and it might not be too late in general but for some stuff it just was.

Kurt couldn't figure out if the universe was what was off kilter or he was- more likely both, and he didn't know why it mattered, only that it did.

It was too horrible, too much.

He swallowed his heart and forced himself to move toward the exit.

He couldn't stay in these halls, couldn't stay in this moment. He had to leave it behind him for real or it would be just another box sitting in his closet, another thing suspended between the definites. And he already had so much in his life that was indefinite that anything more might well kill him, or someone.

"Kurt?"

It was Finn.

He was sitting on top of one of the tables outside, arms on his legs and head in his hands. At the sound of footsteps, his head had tilted up just enough for a glance.

Against his will, a soundless sob lost it's silence, and Finn was up in a second.

"You alright? What happened?"

Kurt shook his head in response and Finn swallowed.

"This Prom's sucked," he said lowly. "Do you want to go home?"

And Kurt could only nod, because home sounded so good, and he only wished Finn could have been with him in the hallway or something instead so that he might not feel like such a coward, not be so filled with that aching sense of humiliation. But his head was pounding with the words 'they know' and all he could think was that Karofsky would have been there and they'd been voted a couple and how could the school not know at this point? How could they not?

So, the only place that sounded remotely good was home and bed and sleep, because he was feeling the steady crawl of exhaustion over him as his adrenaline wore off.

He could only hope this would all hurt less when he could call it yesterday, and even less when it was the day before. Spend the weekend moping and recouping and Monday start fresh.

In the meantime, all he wanted was to be sleeping.

* * *

"Hey! Fuckbag! Yeah, you Karofsky. What the fuck did you do?"

Puck's voice spread through the empty classroom and adjoining hallway, booming mercilessly off walls and lockers.

Karofsky kept his back turned on him, head against a window.

"We know, Karofsky," Sam's voice came from just behind Puck.

"You know?" Karofsky asked the wall with a hard, self-pitying laugh. "You don't know anything that the rest of the school doesn't."

"Do you really believe that?" Puck sneered. "Come here and we'll see if that theory holds up."

"Fuck off," Karofsky hissed. "Everyone already knows I'm a fag, and that's more than enough. I'm a freak, thanks to Kurt. I've lost everything. So fuck off, or I will make you regret it Puckerman. You too Evans. You'd be surprised what goes through a guy's head when he's got nothing else to lose. Tell Kurt thanks for everything. He's got a big mouth and he should remember that it's got a better use than spreading rumors about people better than him."

"Take that back." Puck's face was awash with rage, set like stone with his fury. "Don't you dare try to fucking put your sick shit on him."

"He was the one who gave me his goddamn disease. I was fine before him," Karofsky shouted back.

"Leave Kurt out of this," Sam said darkly.

"And how am I supposed to do that, Blondie? Kurt's the one that _started_ it."

"Easy," Puck burst out. "You come over here and let me rip out your goddamn tongue so you can't speak at all, and especially can't force it down anyone's throat ever again. And then I'll tear off your balls, too. I'm sure they're puny, so it shouldn't be a problem. And I'd be doing a service to the world."

"Puck, don't do anything you'll regret," Sam reminded him quietly.

"Regret?" Puck spat back. "I regret not doing anything. I regret promising Kurt we wouldn't tell anyone. I wouldn't regret giving this sick fuck a cracked skull. I want to see his rotted brain and bash it to nothing, if it exists at all. What do you think about that, huh Karofsky? I should destroy you. I should have already. It's just lucky I have the school to help out with the mission for me, though, isn't it?"

"Shut up," Karofsky bellowed. "Is this what you wanted? As if what just happened wasn't enough? I know I'm hated, alright? Fuck, it was my best friend I'm pretty sure that was leading the movement to get me up there on stage with a fag. My ex-best-friend. I have nothing and no-one."

"You have no right," Puck's voice dropped abruptly, becoming a heavy, raging whisper. "Big deal, you got voted prom king to a guy and it was a big joke. But Kurt did nothing wrong and he got voted queen to the guy who's been molesting and blackmailing him all year. You're a monster, and you don't get to be all injured about this, not when you've done and said so much worse to and about Kurt. And it's bullshit that you want anyone to feel sorry for you when you can't even own up to what you did. Just like it's bullshit that I have to stop myself punching your lights out because otherwise I might have to face time, when you should be the one behind bars."

"Puck," Sam spoke up. "He's not worth it."

Karofsky turned toward them fully for the first time that night and he looked dead.

"Kurt broke his side of the deal. You can tell him it's off. I'm leaving. We'll finish this Monday."

" _I_ will finish this Monday," Puck gritted out.

They stood a moment there facing each other, each simmering in their own throbbing, hateful something, then Karofsky shoved past them and they shouldered him back as they left, each glowering.

Karofsky was completely stoic, his own anger giving way to cold, hard determination. Hate pressed an ice chip around his heart and mind, the cold sharpening his senses. A freezing hell embraced him and he embraced it back, letting the frostbite eat away at his skin and make him completely numb.

* * *

On Sunday, he planned while the ice fully encased his veins.

And on Monday, he came to McKinley High School and shut and locked a door behind him, then pulled out a gun.

* * *

Monday, Kurt thought as he fell asleep, maybe we can all start fresh. Maybe.

* * *


	21. Enter Hell

" _It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world."_

_-Chaos Theory_

…

" _There's a ripple effect_ _i_ _n all that we do. What you do touches me_ _;_ _w_ _hat I do touches you_ _."_

 _**-** _ _Anonymous_

_...  
_

" _I've waited for a long time. Yeah the sleight of my hand is now a quick-pull trigger- All the other kids with the pumped up kicks, You better run, better run, outrun my gun. All the other kids with the pumped up kicks, You better run, better run, faster than my bullet."_  


_-Foster the People: 'Pumped Up Kicks'_

* * *

For Azimio Adams, the day started out like any other ordinary day, but before the end of it he'd be dead.

Until then, though, his alarm clock was going off.

He groaned, hitting the snooze two times as he always did before his little sister yelled into his room from the doorway: "Hey, dumbass, you know that button's broken!"

Azimio grunted and forced himself up to shake his head at her, then throw a pillow her way, calling out: "Watch your language Aleah!"

Aleah just grinned, catching the pillow easily and throwing it back so it smacked him in the head, running off toward the kitchen.

Azimio rolled his eyes and put his pillow behind him, rolling out of bed and rubbing at his eyes.

"Az," his dad yelled from probably the living room. "I made breakfast and your sisters will have it all eaten if you don't get your butt in here and grab a plate."

That got Azimio going.

His dad was the most amazing cook ever, in his professional opinion, and he didn't often get a chance to make them breakfast any day other than Sunday, so when he got to do so you didn't want to let the food escape you. Which it would. Time was of the essence.

Aleah, his twelve year old sister, and Avery, his eight year old, were both already at the table and making quick [work](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6840391/21/Vibrato) of stacks of pancakes, each with one blueberry, one strawberry, and one chocolate chip that was getting greedy looks between bites of the others.

"Azimio, did you get your laundry done?"

His mom closed the refrigerator door and cocked an eyebrow at him.

Azimio groaned, reaching out to grab a plate and fork, then grab four pancakes for himself, two blueberry and two chocolate chip. He was the oldest and an athlete so when it came to this sort of thing his mom didn't nag him outside of pursed lips. Didn't stop her from keeping on him about the laundry though…

"Yes…"

"And folded?"

"…Yes…"

"Oh really? So if I went in there right now-"

"Mom," he sighed. "I'll get it done later okay? When I get home from school?"

"What'd you get on that test? Did you find out?"

" _Mom_."

"Don't talk to your mother like that, Az. Although, Renee, I do you think you should let the boy eat. How was practice yesterday?"

"It was fine," Azimio shrugged, voice muffled through a bite of blueberry pancake. "Coach Beiste had us doing laps though."

"That woman," Renee frowned, "is going to kill you boys."

"She's just getting them whipped into shape," Travis Adams disagreed with his wife, throwing Azimio a wink, then one to each of the girls, making Aleah roll her eyes and Avery giggle despite her imitation of Aleah's derision. "And no-one in this house is going anywhere but school and work today."

Azimio snorted at them, tossing his head, and grabbed his backpack off the floor, standing as he shoved the last few forkfuls of pancake on his plate into his mouth.

"Which reminds me- I've gotta run. I'm picking up some of the guys for school and we're gonna shoot hoops for a while before school starts."

"Yeah, yeah, go," his mom sighed. "But by the time I get home tonight, I want that laundry done, alright?"

Azimio shut the door quickly behind himself, pretending not to have heard, and went to his car, yawning as he did.

He hated Mondays.

He was supposed to be picking up just Tim and Pete, but then Anthony's car got taken, so he wanted a ride too, _and_ he was expecting…

His phone vibrated, then chimed his latest text ringtone, something from a Family Guy episode that had stopped making him laugh about seventy text messages ago, and he flipped it open, head shaking as he read the text. Yep. Strando.

Lately, Jimmy Strando had been making some pretty obvious go's at taking Karofsky's place in their pack, including imposing himself on whoever was doing the week's carpool ever since the week after they'd all found out about…

It wasn't like Jimmy was all bad or anything. He could be pretty fun, when he wasn't busy being annoying. But that wasn't anything new and they all had times when they pissed each other off. The problem was more that he lived just a couple doors down from Dave. From Karofsky, that was. And that meant anytime he needed picked up they passed by the Karofsky place. And it also meant that Jimmy knew even more in the way of gossip about what had been happening lately with them than Azimio himself did, since his mom didn't tell him everything she was told by Dave's mom. Karofsky's. Anyway.

Even worse, the rest of the guys mostly wanted to know about it. So any time they all had to pass the house, the subject unavoidably came up. And Azimio just really did not want to talk about it.

That had been his best friend.

Had.

He really, really didn't want to talk about it.

Still, if he didn't pick up Strando, it would look bad on him. They were a team, which meant unity was considered close to everything as long as it wasn't their popularity or a sports scholarship that was on the line.

He jerked his key in the ignition and pulled out. Might as well get this over with. It wasn't as if it would actually hurt him somehow, and hell if he was gonna be a pussy, let alone the double-crossing kind. That was the sort of thing that could give a guy the karmic blue waffle.

Besides, Dave was nothing he had to worry about. And Karofsky now was nothing at all.

* * *

But, a gun sure as hell was something.

It was something big, if only figuratively.

And if Azimio had been able to think or regret whatsoever with the barrel to his temple and the click as it was cocked ringing in his hollow ear, he would probably have been thinking that Dave Karofsky was definitely more than nothing, but he also wasn't only different from the guy who had been Azmio's best friend in that he dug himself some dick these days, because the guy Dave had been would never have gone to this point. And, maybe, just maybe, he could have prevented some of the transformation or at least helped prevent _this_ if he hadn't been so quick to shove Dave as far away as he possibly could. If nothing else in that moment, Dave being into guys seemed a hell of a lot less important than Dave putting a gun to his head.

But if any of this had occurred to him or had even been able to, it didn't matter, didn't make so much as a finger twitch of a difference.

Because in less than a minute after the sound of the gun being cocked, Dave's finger moved on the trigger and a bullet crashed point blank into his cranium and Azimio 'Z' Adams was almost instantly dead, and so could think and grow and realize no more.

* * *

It's funny how often all the clichés are true when you come right down to it; how people for all their desire to break pattern more often than not only manage to follow through. All the things you deride as being cheesy and predictable are suddenly- and not so suddenly at all- simply put, your reality.

I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.

Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.

It was just meant to be.

And the day you die is just another day until you're dying.

It's so cliché- the angry at the world guy who brings a gun to school.

A gun- not a bomb, or a knife, or just like a sharpened plastic fork or something.

To be fair, just about everything is cliché. And a sharpened plastic fork would probably be really lame.

When one door closes, another door opens.

Funny, but it's never said whether what that door reveals will be good or bad.

Only that it is.

Everyone dies eventually.

It wasn't your time.

You only live once.

They'd want you to be happy.

"Maybe if we'd cared more or just paid a little more attention before any of this happened." Standing outside a school, outside a line of yellow tape.

Clichés just all seem to come true, don't they?

For good or for bad, they just do. They just are.

Even if you need them like you need a bullet in the brain.

* * *

"In the future," Brittany was saying, "we're totally pregnant and having girls."

Santana flexed her fingers in Brittany's, a sarcastic twitching at her lips.

"How far in the future is that exactly?"

Brittany shrugged, twirling her pony tail.

"You _want_ to carry my babies, right? Cause after I thought I was pregnant before it made me think it'd be pretty cool to have Santittany babies. They would be so, so pretty."

"Kids are kind of annoying, though, Britt. And they always want something."

"You'd be a good mom… I can tell."

"They're always so sticky, though…"

"So are we," Brittany reminded her blithely.

"Touché."

"I hate to interrupt this lover's fest," Blaine's voice intervened. "But are we going to practice in the choir room or not? I have some really emotional pieces I've been working on since the other day with Kurt."

"Yeah, sure," Brittany smiled.

"I don't know how much practice you'll be getting in though Curly," Santana's voice informed him through a groan. "Have you checked your phone?"

"No, I turn it off during school hours now usually, since it keeps going off in class and getting me in trouble. Thanks for that by the way."

"Oh, no need to thank me, although you are welcome. And apparently Berry mass-texted about another damn emergency glee meeting," Santana grumbled. "And we're late."

"We can go now," Brittany hummed back, twisting their fingers. "It'll be fun. And for every time Rachel says the words star, solo, or nationals I say we make out, like a Rachel drinking game. Sexts would work too."

"What a great time to be single," Blaine groused. "Not that I'm not _very_ happy for the two of you. I'm ecstatic, actually, really."

Santana just smirked, and Brittany reached out her free hand to give him a pat on the shoulder, and then, with a grin, the top of the head.

He rolled his eyes.

"I think I'll skip the meeting now that I think about it. I don't know if I'm really up for seeing Kurt and his merry band of protectors. Besides, I should probably be studying. We have finals in not too long."

"They're like over a month away, so your excuse is shit, but sure. Have fun," Santana replied breezily. "Read some porn for me."

"It's the school library Santana. There's probably no porn."

"It's a public school library, Boop. There is _so_ definitely porn."

"Yeah, okay. Tell Rachel I'd like to be there but I want to make sure I stay academically eligible, okay? That should help."

"You, maybe," Santana groused back, then pushed at his shoulder lightly. "Go on. We'll see you later."

"Yeah, see you."

"See you Blaine!"

He watched Brittany and Santana walk out of the cafeteria a moment, then made his way to the library without much of a second thought.

It was seven minutes after he'd shut the door behind him and two after he'd finally found a spot with his books and grudgingly pulled out a spiral of notes that the intercom system shrilled alive and Sue Sylvester's voice came projected down on all of them: "Mckinley students and faculty, prepare immediately for lockdown status – this is not a drill. For those of you suddenly deaf or too preoccupied with the urine running down your leg, I repeat – We are officially in lockdown."

* * *

_**eight minutes earlier** _

The locker-room was never empty on Mondays, even during lunch.

Instead, a few of the top jocks had a long-held tradition of scarfing down their food even faster than usual and making their way to the locker-room to hang out without everyone watching and listening while lifting weights or whatever the hell else.

It used to be a gathering of Noah Puckerman, Finn Hudson, Pete Welklin, Mike Chang, Matt Rutherford, Tim McNell, Michael Hays, Azimio Adams, and David Karofsky. Over time, the gathering had changed, mostly as Puck, Finn, Mike, and Matt were all lost to glee club, with the last also moving. Jim Strando had moved into the club in the meantime, with Anthony Rashad and Ben Cooley; and even with the recent loss of Dave, they kept on going, packing in food every Monday (and Wednesday) at lunch and hurrying for the door into their own private world.

You could say and do whatever the fuck you wanted when you were there mostly, just as long as most of it was lies, and pretty much all of it was either about sports or sex. And you didn't know how great it was having limits to what you could talk about until you had them, until you didn't have to think or care about big issues or consider a test you may be failing or that most of what you said was probably wrong and probably going to be something you regretted way down the line in the big, nothing future.

Mondays were escape. Brainless, meaningless time. Nothing could matter. Nothing could hurt. Everything was innocent in all the ways it wasn't. Anything you said or did could not be held against you in a court of law, you would not be judged by a jury of your peers (not if you kept to the rules, that was). Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?

No and no.

So, it was another meaningless Monday, and there they were. The usual gang.

Azimio Adams, right there. On a bench with a weight in each hand, doing alternating curl-ups by sets of twenty.

To his left, where he-who-must-not-be-named (the one not cool enough to be in Harry Potter) had always been before, was Jimmy Strando, fingers taut on a bar above his head, curling and uncurling as he contemplated his next lift while he caught his breath. Anthony Rashad was spotting him above, one hand loose around a metal bar as he listened to the conversation and occasionally threw in a comment of his own to keep things going, keep the nonchalance alive.

Ben Cooley was sitting on one of the big medicine balls, rolling himself around, with his phone in hand. Lying on the bench across from Azimio was Tim McNell. He was holding a baseball bat he'd picked up off the floor when they came in, tossing it into the air and catching it until Pete Welklin reached out and interfered and the two of them began throwing it between them instead, playing monkey in the middle with Michael when he, too, tried to interrupt.

When the door to the locker-room opened, the bat was only just being hurled into the air.

None of them turned around until the first shot. Until Pete fell, eyes wide, shoulder bloody, and the bat clattered to the cement floor, uncaught.

The sharp bang cracked through the stillness, and the first scream broke- Pete's.

Sixteen-year-old-just-getting-ready-to-get-his-license-shot-in-the-shoulder-so-much-blood-Pete's.

"Dave?" Azimio was staring, fingers clenched around his weight. He abruptly dropped it and it hit the ground with a dull thud. Instead of replying, Dave just shot Michael where he knelt next to Pete, hands covered in the blood he was trying to staunch.

He fell, too, crossways on top of Pete, a hole in his back, clean through his chest.

In the breath of a moment, the scowl of a second, they were all scrambling for their lives, screaming, yanking phones, running for an exit, for anywhere, anything, for their safe spot of meaningless nothing.

Michael Hays was dead in less than a minute, blood rushing to fill his lungs. His chest stilled on Pete's, who wailed, shoving at him, trying desperately through the pain of his own wound to escape.

David took up the bat from the floor and the next minute Pete was as good as dead, too.

The doors leading outside were all locked during lunch, the only one not being the one just past Dave. The locker-room was a holding cell, an isolation chamber. There was no way out but past David and his gun and his staring eyes.

Anthony got a bullet to the ankle, but kept going, only slowing when another two struck his calf. He sagged against the wall, pushing forward still, staggering. Ben hunched between the medicine balls he'd rolled back between, grateful for his slighter frame that still managed to feel too big with a gun hunting out everything that moved, blinking back tears and struggling to control his shaking hands as he pressed buttons on his phone, wincing a little at every sound.

David took the opportunity to turn on Jim Strando, who was huddled beneath a bench in the corner of the room, barely breathing. The gun sounded, once, twice, three times, and then he didn't at all, Dave's free hand pressing at his throat.

"I figure," his voice was harsh, and too loud for all its poison softness in the stillness of the room, "if all fags go to hell, might as well drag a few of you down with me. Nothing left to lose, right?"

Jimmy's mouth gaped open and closed, a fish out of water. Air whistled as he worked to answer. David just nodded and emptied a bullet point blank into his face.

"You guys were my friends, I thought, but you're all better than me, aren't you? I'm just a fag to you now. I'm nothing. But now we can all be even again," David's voice was strange, his eyes searching, his words vacant and obliging. "I've been in hell, guys. Now you all will be too. And in hell I'm pretty sure everyone becomes a faggot."

He laughed abruptly, but the sound was hollow and hard.

"Now where's my best friend? My best friend who made me King with Hummel? Who abandoned me? Where are ya, Z?"

Azimio Adams was in a stall in the bathroom.

He almost came out, started to edge off the seat, but thought better.

His chest hurt.

He didn't understand this.

He knew Dave, or thought he did. Obviously, there was a lot more he'd been hiding than just being into guys.

Before the thought could progress further, footsteps entered the bathroom.

Azimio's breath shuddered in his throat, and he only barely stopped a hiccupping sob. The images of his mom and dad and three sisters, the two at home and the one at college, Aleah and Avery and Abrianna, all of his family flashed through his head. The feet stopped outside of the stall next to his and all he could see was them, so close.

His ex-best-friend and his ex-best-friend's gun, less than a foot away.

His ex-best-friend and his ex-best-friend's gun both of which actually wanted to kill him. Wanted him dead. Gone. Obliterated. Wanted to destroy him.

Terror washed over him, and still all he saw was his family and the feet and the barrel of the gun tapping at the door of that next stall over. Inches from death, from karma's ultimate returning bitch slap.

The gun tapped on his door and his eyes squeezed shut.

He wished silently he was anywhere but here, or that it could all just change, just not be, not exist. He'd give anything for a different reality in that moment with death breathing down his neck and his own mortality breaking thread between the scissors of fate, between the axis on which that door opened and closed.

There had to have been a way to avoid this, had to be a world where this didn't happen. It seemed too cruel.

The door creaked and he caught his breath, what he had left of it. He was aware of the numbers in his mind of inhale, of exhale, of the beating of his heart. He had to be, when each time more might well become last.

Against his will, his eyes flinched open and took in the scene, connected with the gunman's.

"Hey, Z."

The metal, warm with friction and silent fire, touched his temple.

"Don't call me that," Azimio's voice surprised them both, more than the words even.

"Which one of us," Dave tapped the gun on his forehead once, then let it resettle, "do you think gets to make the calls here?"

His bladder betrayed him, primal fear rearing up his throat as urine slowly soaked through the front of his jeans.

Dave's face was empty as he tapped the gun again.

"You're such a damn pussy, Z, beneath it all. Aren't you? You're scared of the fag with the gun. The king with the flamer of a queen, huh? You were right about him, but that doesn't matter anymore, does it? We were friends from the time we were kids. And you just threw it all away, threw me away. You're a coward piece of fucking shit. I may be nothing now, but I'm still better than you, Z. And you're gonna die a fucking nobody in a small town no-one gives a shit about, pissing his pants in fear of a queer. Not even trying, really trying, to get away. No real fight any more. This is hell, Z. That warm feeling in your pants, you soaking yourself because you can't do fuck else, it's all hell. I want to welcome you to it. I've been here awhile, you know? It's about time I had my best friend to keep me company down here."

Azimio shook his head, eyes wanting but unable to close.

"Please, Dave. We were friends."

"Exactly."

The sound of the gun being cocked echoed in his head. Another heartbeat. Another breath.

In.

The gun went off.

Out.

The air left his lungs fast, and didn't come back.

* * *

-911 What's your emergency?

Hello?

Hello?

-Help, we need help, oh my God.

-Sir? Sir, what's the emergency?

-He's just shooting. He's got a gun. I don't understand. Help.

-Sir, where are you?

-McKinley High school, please, we need help.

Bang.

Sob.

-Stay on the line with me, sir, alright?

-I can't under- it was just a stupid prank… I don't want to die for a stupid prank. I don't understand why this is happening.

-Sir, stay on the line. We have a team on its way to the school now and are contacting the principal. Can I ask where in the school you are?

-Locker-room. Please. I don't want to die.

* * *

"What was that?"

Brittany's head was cocked.

Santana frowned at her.

"I didn't hear anything. Have you been forgetting to clean your ears out again?"

"You know you liked my earwax bears."

"I really didn't."

Brittany shrugged.

"Whatever. I thought they were great. But I think it came from that way."

Santana followed her direction, both girls peering down the hallway toward the p.e. wing.

"The boys' locker room, you mean? Wanky."

"Let's go check it out, and join in if it's an orgy," Brittany grinned. "It'd be better than dealing with Rachel. A lot more sexy."

"I really don't think I want to do that, Britt."

Santana cast a dubious look at the locker-room.

"The boys here have a funk that cannot be denied, and that would be entering their lair. Who knows what STD's would jump out at you?"

Brittany nodded easily.

"That's true."

They started to turn down the hall way, then Brittany abruptly stopped and tugged on their twined fingers.

"I want to get a drink of water. Can you go ahead and defuse the Rachel Berry bomb? You promised Blaine."

Santana sighed.

"You want to check out the locker room, don't you?"

This earned a wide grin.

"Yes. Just really fast. I promise I won't be long."

Santana rolled her eyes, but leaned in for a quick kiss on her girlfriend's cheek, then, after darting a wary glance around the empty hall, one to her lips.

"Fine, yeah. I'll go give the excuses to Berry. But you owe me for this."

"I know."

Brittany winked and Santana smirked, watching her for a moment before turning, head and ponytail shaking fondly as she moved toward the choir room.

Brittany went straight to the water fountain as she'd promised, then began toward the locker-room, humming absently.

* * *

**27 hours earlier**

"David?"

David Karofsky didn't look away from his computer screen, silent a long moment before answering, his voice empty, toneless outside of the barest washes of hate.

"What do you want?"

Paul Karofsky hesitated at the doorway, looking in.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Swallowed. The corners of his lips twitched down and he licked nervously at them before finally saying: "Are you going to eat anything today?"

Dave snorted.

"Does it matter?"

"You know it does…"

"Just go away, Dad."

Paul stared in at his son, blinked twice, then nodded, and did as he was told.

On the keyboard, David's fingers stopped moving a moment as he took in the retreat. His eyes didn't so much as flick over the screen. His throat bobbed once.

Then, the second stopped and he returned to typing, fingers moving if possible even more vigorously than before.

The flames reared inside him, flaying him alive, dead. Leaving nothing but the ash of who he once was.

He was smarter than they thought, even if he was nothing. They'd see.

He 'd been burned by the world, so he was going to take as much of it down to cinders and drag it into hell with him.

He wanted nothing good left alive. Nothing easy remaining behind.

He wanted them to feel what he no longer could. What he'd been seared into this nothing with. And he'd stop short of nothing less than the complete destruction of all he couldn't have, all he hadn't been able to be or do, and all that had put him here in the first place.

This was war now. He'd get his revenge or die trying. Well, actually, he'd die either way, not that he cared. What mattered now was how many he could take with him.

* * *

The door to the choir room opened and closed several times a day, like any other door did. But where its opening had before only oddly haunted two members of the glee club, after that Monday there was no-one in all of glee club, and few even in the whole school, who didn't have nightmares of that door opening. Closing. Being locked.

Where it started, it was ending.

They say clichés all seem to come true at the end of the day.

" **I repeat – We are officially in lockdown."**

"What?"

The energy in the choir room, always high, fell away as Mr. Will Schuester made his way toward the door, key out and at the ready as he called for the kids to stay calm and get down, be quiet, it'll be fine.

He was less than a foot from the door when it opened, less than a foot when a bang shuddered through the sudden silence, less than a foot when a bullet cut him short and he fell.

"No. It's not going to be fine. Time to stop dreaming."

The choir room door was closed.

A gun was pointed at Quinn Fabray.

She stared, eyes wide.

"Grab the key and lock the door for me. Now, or I shoot."

Noah Puckerman, Sam Evans, and Finn Hudson were all up in a second, and the gun darted toward them.

"Don't. You'll get your turn. Until then how about you just protect your precious blabbermouth Kurt. It's his fault you're all in this mess."

"No, it's not," Sam spoke up, eyes sharp. "It's not."

Kurt didn't stay a word, his fingers clenching around his phone, around the text it bore from a familiar, hated number.

**_You broke your word I'm breaking mine. You think you've seen hell Hummel? Fucking wait._ **

David's finger moved on the trigger, and a noise like a firecracker broke the stillness.

Kate's fingers on her phone stopped moving.

Quinn whimpered softly.

Rachel's head was shaking.

Puck's nails dug into Kurt's unmoving shoulder.

On the floor, Mr. Schuester continued to bleed, unconscious.

Quinn drew a sharp breath, half sob, and finally did as she'd been told, moving forward under the stare of the gun to take the key from her teacher's bloody hand, whispering a cracked apology to him before she moved to the door.

The gun touched her neck as she turned the key in the lock, then fired as the turn completed, as the door was sealed shut.


	22. Inferno

" _It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world."_

_-Chaos Theory_

…

" _There's a ripple effect_ _i_ _n all that we do. What you do touches me_ _;_ _w_ _hat I do touches you_ _."_

_**-**  _ _Anonymous_

_...  
_

" _I've waited for a long time. Yeah the sleight of my hand is now a quick-pull trigger- All the other kids with the pumped up kicks, You better run, better run, outrun my gun. All the other kids with the pumped up kicks, You better run, better run, faster than my bullet."_  


_-Foster the People: 'Pumped Up Kicks'_

* * *

As the tired cliché went, in the choir room, with a gun pointed toward the members of New Directions and the remnants of Quinn Fabray slumped forward and bleeding profusely against a locked door, time stood still.

There was a grim finality thickening in the air, a cementing horror that had as it solidified filled their lungs with obstruction, their hearts and brains with ice, their bodies with fire; and so stillness coated them in every sense of the word. For a moment that seemed an eternity, no-one could move; no-one could speak, think, feel; for a moment they were frozen, on the brink, after the brink; in the shock of it all, and the unshakeable 'too late', they were all steeped in still and time ceased to so much as budge.

The thing about moments, though, is that they are fleeting, here and gone, and the thing about time is that it always picks up pace again- it never actually stops. It waits for no man, even if it means that everyone is left behind… which, more often than not, they are.

An awful, gurgling cry was the first thing to break it, the silence, the eye of the tornado they'd found themselves caught in. Quinn hadn't died, despite the fatalistic wound, and she had her hands wrapped in painstaking desperation around her gaping throat, blood all over them and the door before her.

Her cry set off a chain reaction through the rows of chairs, the columns of students, wails rising to bounce off the walls, reflecting sound back as one collective body of screaming. Noise exploded with the gunshot, with the spray of Quinn's blood over the door into the choir room, with the fast fall of her body to the floor and the helpless, horrified scrabbling of her hands. It took over the choir room with the smoking hole in one of the wheels of Artie's chair, right next to Kate and below Sam, and above Tina, who was somehow not crying, eyes steady as Mike's beside her became almost vacant.

"Karofsky," Tina's voice sounded, stated.

Mike's fingers twitched in hers, and she clenched tight.

"What do you think of that? You guys want to sing now?"

In the front row, Rachel gave a sob.

He abruptly aimed his gun once more and Finn lurched forward.

Another bang filled the room like the clang of piano keys or the pounding of a drum and Rachel shrieked a little and Finn dragged her back toward where he had been with Kurt, Puck, and Sam. Trying his best to protect them. His eyes were frantic, his fingers cold.

Rachel's head was shaking. Her ankle was bleeding, but she hadn't seemed to fully realize it yet.

"Come on. That's what you do, right? It's supposed to make everything better, isn't it?"

"No," Tina spoke up, and her lips quivered over the words as they formed them, but they emerged nonetheless, sure in the thickness. "Music helps, but it's not a cure-all."

"Tina, stop," Mike murmured beside her. "Don't respond to him."

"Don't talk to me? Why shouldn't she talk to me, Chang?" Karofsky's voice was fast, frenetic, his tone furious. "What? Because I'm a freak, right? You don't want your girlfriend talking to the faggot freak with a gun."

"Karofsky, stop," Artie called out, pleading in the undertones of his voice.

"No," Karofsky snapped back. And then, as if to prove his point, he fired again.

They all jumped slightly.

The bullet tore through the trophy case, cracking the glass.

"You're all fucking pathetic," he half-screamed, half-growled into their terror. "That's all you've ever been. If this glee club crap had never been started, I coulda been fine. We all would have been."

"That's not true," Artie spoke again.

David didn't pay him any attention.

"How's it feel to know you guys caused all of this? I bet it feels like shit. Like hell. Goddamn taste of fire in your mouth, am I right? I've been feeling that for weeks now. For months. Meanwhile, you guys just sing. But don't worry too much, most of you aren't getting out of here alive, so you can pretty much kiss singing and nationals and New York and all your dream bullshit goodbye."

"Leave them out of this," Kurt's voice for the first time hit the air, and he sounded like he was coming from somewhere far, far away. "They aren't part of this. It's between you and me."

"Kurt, stop," Puck growled next to him. "Shut the fuck up."

"He's not completely wrong. It's more his fault than any of the rest of you. And if he hadn't been using his big fucking mouth to ruin my life, it might just be between Hummel and me. But he screwed everything up. Didn't you, Kurt? You broke every one of our deals. You never followed the rules. And you screwed us."

"No he didn't, and that's what your big problem is, huh?" Puck yelled out, fist clenching around Kurt's shoulder. "You're hard up because Kurt stopped you from  _raping_  him, and you weren't willing to do the work to get laid right."

"What?" Tina's voice asked, and for the first time tears glossed her eyes.

Mike and Artie's voices echoed hers, while Mercedes joined in Kurt's quiet, her hands clasped tight in her lap, her murmured prayers choking off.

David's eyes flicked around the room, taking in the expressions, the anger, the judgment, and the slow slipping of his control, then his finger steadied once more on the trigger of the gun and pressed sharply in.

"Shut up," he commanded, voice deadly in the silence that resettled after yet another bang. In the front row, Mike Chang's breathing was shallow, his fingers venturing in shock up to the hole in his shoulder, sticky and slick with his blood. Beside him Tina's face had crumpled as her own hand reached for the wound, too.

"Any of you feel like singing now?" Karofsky asked again.

No-one said a word.

* * *

Burt Hummel had his radio on in the shop, a wrench in his hand, and a stack of paperwork behind him when the music stopped abruptly and a voice said: "We have urgent, breaking news."

Burt rolled his eyes and rose from where he'd been about to get on the dolly, turning toward the radio and reaching out.

He didn't think he could handle any so-called emergencies when he was already in the midst of a shit storm of family issues, and almost as many problems here at the shop.

His hand touched the knob, going to turn it, then froze, and he almost stopped breathing.

"-students apparently called in about gunfire at a local high school-"  
No. No. No.

NoNoNoNoNononononononono-

"The reports are just starting to roll in, and we've been told police are already securing the perimeter. No-one seems to know right now exactly who the shooter is, but there are some saying it might be a student. Now this is McKinley High in west Lima, folks, where this is happening, and all I can say is that it's gonna have to be a wait-and-see game what happens from here. We will be giving updates on information as it comes in, but in the meantime let's all keep our thoughts and prayers with the students and faculty at McKinley, while I bring us back into our normal circulation. Here's Jack and Diane, on-"

About half-way through the radio host's diatribe Burt dropped the wrench he'd been holding on his foot and let loose a stream of cuss words, listening carefully, but feeling like it was nowhere near enough. Numbly, he picked it back up, then grabbed his wallet and keys. All around him, his employees were listening and staring.

"Kurt's school," he said, though it was clearly unnecessary. "I've gotta go."

In his pocket his cell phone rang and he shook himself, answering it only when he noticed his wife's name on the screen.

He remembered Finn, and swallowed his heart.

That was the problem with basically having two sons now instead of one- there was all the more opportunity to feel terrified.

It was the worst pain in the world, not knowing if his child was okay or if his makeshift family was still whole. The only pain that might be worse he refused to let himself think about. It wasn't possible. No.

"Carole?" His voice was hoarse.

"Burt, I'm two minutes from the shop, and then we're going to McKinley together." Hers was too.

They were both in anguish. Might as well take one car. If they both could lean on the other, it might be just enough to make them feel like something of a pillar. At the very least it would make it a hell of a lot harder to fall.

"Okay," he murmured gruffly. "I love-…"

"Me too..."

Behind him the radio was back to talking again. About school shootings, about McKinley High, about gunfire, about wait-and-see, and compromise.

Burt was pretty sure he was never listening to this station again.

He started toward the door, then realized the wrench still in his hand and abruptly turned, throwing it at the radio.

The radio fell to the floor and finally shut up, and Burt only wished that the absence of the news forcing itself on the room could have made it disappear altogether.

* * *

"Brittany? Hey Britt, I decided I can't deal with Berry without you," Santana called through the hall.

She'd been maybe two-thirds or some shit of the way to the choir room when she decided she had to turn back. She really didn't feel like doing another stupid emergency glee meeting that would have only stupid drama, especially when she could just find Brittany and they could make-out instead or something. She thought, of course, she'd meet Britt in the hall coming away from the locker room, but her girlfriend was nowhere to be found so far.

She was getting close to the locker-room now; it was just down the hall. She'd chosen to take a short-cut through the auditorium in the hope to find Brittany faster, and was glad she'd at least done that because it would have taken at least a minute or two longer to get back to this hallway, and if Brittany was still in the locker-room or whatever she could get to her sooner.

She was just hoping the jocks hadn't actually been having some sort of messed up wanked-out orgy or whatever that her girlfriend had gotten in the middle of, because ew. That was a seriously nasty image.

"Britt. Hello? What is this? A lame horror movie?"

She frowned, turning the corner around the water fountain, and then stopped dead in her tracks.

Her breath was gone. Her lungs were clenched by iron.

About half-way down the hall toward the locker-room she could see unmistakable blond hair and long legs.

On the ground.

Limp.

She was running before it hit her that she still couldn't breathe, moving before she understood that anything like time had passed when it only seemed all around her to be stock still. A frozen blur of nothing beyond blond hair, long legs. Brittany S. Pierce, her girlfriend and best friend, on the floor.

Still.

Limp.

Brittany was never limp.

Yet here she was.

Santana's knees hit the ground hard, her eyes blinking back intangible, absent tears desperately.

Brittany was as frozen as time, as gone as air. Slipped through her grasp. Somewhere in this fogging nothing just out of reach, just beyond her line of sight.

She was screaming before she realized she could make any noise. Screaming and dry sobbing and screaming some more before she fully understood the existence of the chaos swirling an inferno inside her. Intermingling Spanish and English and haunting howls, a universal language no-one of hearing in the building would be unable to understand.

"Who is that?"

People were emerging from classrooms and the cafeteria, all horrified mouths and confused, wide eyes. At the sight of blood and a gaping hole in a classmate's chest, they jumped back, yelled out, retched into garbage cans and onto floors, and collapsed, folded down like broken buildings.

Santana had draped herself over said chest, holding tight, screaming at anyone who could hear her between a quiet Spanglish-like lament mumbled frantically into blond hair.

Brittany's chest was still and bloody. Her eyes were open and unseeing. Her legs were limp and unmoving.

They should be dancing. Running. Anything.

Brittany was a person of movement.

Of life.

She wasn't meant to be this…

This dead.

Teachers were radioing for help or whatever. The school nurse was grabbing her and pulling her away and she just didn't want to move. If Britt couldn't, why could she?

Santana screamed one more time, the sound piercing and saturated in an all-consuming grief and rage.

Then she went silent as Britt and let the rest of the school take over, Sue Sylvester's voice announcing over the intercom that they were officially in lockdown. And she was dragged into the closest classroom by the closest teacher, fingers still clenched in a circle like she hadn't let go of Brittany's wrist at all.

* * *

"There are shots coming from inside."

Mouths were set in solemn lines, eyes watchful and wide, the eyes of someone tracking a major car accident and hating what they saw but unable to look away.

Inside, fire alarms were starting to shrill, emptying desolation on the crowds both in and out.

In a lockdown setting, when fire alarms go off, no-one is supposed to move.

No-one is supposed to leave the building, unless occupied by officers clearing rooms.

They are told to simply stay put, huddle in darkness, and don't make noise even as their every instinct yells at them to run and to holler. The instinct to file into a line and flee to a set area outside is programmed into their brain from the time they start school, if not before. Yet now it must be forced down and ignored.

In a lockdown setting, when the fire alarms go off, it doesn't make a damn bit of difference.

"We need to start an evacuation right away," an instruction is finally called, voice grim and hardened.

"Now."

Inside McKinley High, alarms were shrieking, red lights flashing, but limbs stayed locked, even as smoke started rolling in through the gymnasium and flame rippled ruthlessly through the halls, melting lockers into ash and a school into the ground. When they did move and realize, for many it would be too late.

For most, it already was.

In all the chaos, the reality of fire-alarms and smoke and gunshots in the building couldn't rightly set in; and so they hunched like a blur, a photograph of frozen movement smudged and lost between unclear moments of time as time ticked on and ran out, absorbed by flames and trigger press-pull-bang.

* * *

"Why do I smell smoke?"

It was Rachel who spoke up, voice rising with a new kindling of horror.

Karofsky ignored her.

"This is what you get back, okay? This is it. What use are all your dreams now? You think a dream can stop a bullet? I'm more than all of you losers combined, even as completely fucked as I am.

I ran into your best dancer, by the way. She's dead. Fuck talent. See where it got her? She's better off though. She was a fag too, kinda, right? Except people didn't give her as much shit, but they would've. So, really, I basically just saved her. Now come out of your pathetic hiding like the fucking cowards you are and maybe I'll make it quick for you too. Maybe I'll save you too."

"You're lying."

"Brittany…?"

"Oh my god…"

Another bang filled and cleared the room and Kate wrapped her arms around her middle with a cry, blood soaking through the material of her shirt.

Another bang.

Another.

Two of the band members now. Remembered at just the wrong moment and made unwillingly immortal.

New Directions members scattered through the close confines of the choir room, huddling together in groups or alone, pushing as far away from death and Karofsky and the easy paths for bullets. The jazz band members that had been present were all crouched behind instruments or tucked into corners behind the set-up, with the two shot members fallen at the feet of the piano.

Outside of the room they could all hear more screams starting to climb the thickening air in harmony with the shrilling of the fire alarm.

How many were already dead?

How many injured?

How many scarred for life?

Who knew; who knew; and: Probably all.

Karofsky meandered further into the blank canvas of the choir room, knocking his gun against the legs of chairs and prison brick, against lives and hearts, painting it all red with the blood spilled and the blood not.

Tainting and changing the look of the whitewashed walls and floor forever, leaving his mark, claiming everything his, everything destroyed.

Kurt was still sitting in his chair, and therefore had Finn and Puck and Sam and Rachel like an army around him, but somehow he seemed the calmest, if in the worst way possible. He was utterly still in the center of it all, floating somewhere up in space, somewhere far away from the emotion and the too-late's and the seeping, drowning blood.

Quinn was still against the door, her motions becoming slower and more feeble, slowed down as if she were under water; meanwhile, Mike had slid to the floor himself, with Tina huddling beside him, her hands around his shoulder and her lips sealed tight with worry and suppression.

Artie couldn't budge with his blown wheel, but his eyes behind his glasses had gone glassy themselves, almost vacant under a veil of despair, despite- or perhaps because- of how completely he was now being ignored by Karofsky and his threats.

Kate had curled beneath a chair as best she could, arms still wound tight and mouth clamped to stop further noise, a hand curled out around the base of the chair's leg and her eyes glued on the drum behind which her boyfriend hid. Behind her, Mercedes had taken refuge just off the "stage" in the vague cover of shadow, her lips moving to form prayers that never fully rose, each one started tapering off into another, directionless.

Karofsky moved among them, pausing next to one hiding place or another at regular intervals, and then moving on, mumbling threats and revulsion as the fire crept closer, occasionally brushing the tip of his gun over skin and leaving it there a moment before turning away and taking up his pacing once again.

Finally, Puck had had enough and moved, shattering the stillness of the blurring moments, the distorted marching of time as he broke rank, charging Karofsky abruptly head on, Sam on his heels just seconds after he realized what Puck was doing.

Puck swung out an arm, knocking away the gun just enough to prevent aim at himself, and barreled into Karofsky, slamming him hard and bringing a surprised grunt of pain. Karofsky recovered himself quickly, throwing himself against Puck and jerking the gun so that the barrel was jabbing Puck in the side.

Puck's breath was coming fast and hard, his eyes steeled with his jaw.

"Shoot. I dare you."

Karofsky's eyes flashed and his finger stroked the trigger than jerked it abruptly, spotting an opening.

Rachel screamed and Finn let out a yell as the bullet hit his arm and kept going into her back.

Karofsky yanked the gun back and threw another bullet, this one striking Puck's left forearm and going through to the floor.

The stillness resumed a moment, became slow-motion then less, and then seemed to speed back up rapidly. Mercedes was charging Karofsky suddenly, and the gun in the midst of the chaos fell from Karofsky's fingers, hit the floor, and skittered across it.

She got to the gun first.

A bullet missed his head by a meter, and another grazed his hand, but he didn't flinch from it, and a moment later he recaptured his gun, eyes alight with anger.

Mercedes' own eyes met Kurt's a moment before the gun touched her chest and perched there a moment before rising abruptly to strike her hard across the head. Once. Twice. Three times, the third slamming into the side of her head even harder than the rest with a sharp smacking sound that resounded through the room.

She fell, too.

Kurt swallowed and stared at a vague spot on her arm, ignoring the blood drooling out from the side of her head and her ear as Karofsky slowly began to step forward, going toward Kurt now.

Kurt still hadn't moved, and he was alone in a chair in the center of the choir room now, his last soldier, Sam, having moved from Puck to Mercedes in a fading heartbeat. Puck was watching, eyes narrowed, fingers gripping his own wound and jaw clenched hard. Yet, his legs seemed locked and his gaze was guarded and unyielding.

Finn was rocking Rachel, who had lost consciousness, blood pooling from her back, forming a crimson halo stain on the once white floor. Filling the canvas of their dreams with the paint of their nightmares. Her breathing was ragged, and both her and Finn's faces were as white as the floor had once been. They might as well have been given a poison apple. Their dreams and relative innocence were crushed. Their movement had grown unmoving.

All that McKinley High was left with now was still.

"Hummel."

"Karofsky."

Kurt's voice was quiet and distant.

The flames were engulfing rooms now. In various places of the building, people were breaking windows and flinging themselves towards freedom from the smoke and the sounds and smells and feels of death crowding in on them, desperately working to escape the angry flames and frozen, blurred moments.

Smoke inhalation and first and second and third-degree burns followed most on their way, and clung to those who stayed, limbs locked and instincts to run being battled down because in a lockdown-setting when the fire alarms went off you weren't supposed to move an inch. Not a goddamn one. The police were on their way to save you.

As if it was still possible to be saved.

They were already brushing lips with hell.

"Are you planning to kill me now? You've been talking about it long enough."

Instead of answering, Karofsky pointed his weapon again, his hand shaking, and his and Kurt's eyes connected fully for the first time since Kurt had almost been raped by him.

There was a final gunshot.

McKinley High School stood still in its complete demolition, and, somewhere, a door slammed open, far, far too late.

 


	23. Of Sepia and Vibrancy

CHAOS THEORY:  **Vibrato**

**Chapter 23- Of Sepia and Vibrancy**

" _It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world."_

_-Chaos Theory_

…

" _There's a ripple effect_ _i_ _n all that we do. What you do touches me_ _;_ _w_ _hat I do touches you_ _."_

_**-** _ _Anonymous_

* * *

 It was four p.m., ten years after the McKinley shooting to the day, and despite the sun shining down on Lima, Ohio, white candles were slowly being lit in a basin of water. One by one, wicks were brushed with fire and the candles were set afloat until eleven flames were reflected in the water, and in the eyes of their solemn audience. Eleven white candles for the eleven lives ruthlessly stolen.

 Silence shrouded the crowd, broken up only by the occasional sniffling or shift of weight.

 More candles, these a soft, butter-like yellow, were brought out and added to the pool. Their sheer number soon had the white surrounded- it was at least thirty- but they melded together with neither overwhelming the other, and the yellow almost made the white shine brighter. In the water's reflection, the tiny fires of each slowly joined to form a single, sure flame.

 Silence still, mostly. Some smaller children were being tutted and hushed, and several of the attendants were muttering prayers or sympathies. These, however, didn't stop the silent, still feel to the air of the makeshift amphitheater.

 Nor did the sound of a throat clearing into a microphone- or until the voice itself emerged, that was.

 It was a worn voice, a wary one, high in pitch and simultaneously hard and soft in tone. An unmistakable one, to be sure.

 Murmuring would have erupted through the audience if any of them had been able to shake their shock enough to do so. As it was, they settled for staring and working to hear through their haze.

 Kurt Hummel, now twenty-seven and distinctly as determined as he'd ever been, plowed on.

 He'd made a choice to come here, back to a city he'd left behind a decade ago and hadn't returned to since. And when Kurt Hummel made a decision, more often than not, for better or for worse, that was that. There was no more to it. So, he'd made a choice to come back, made a choice to get up here in front of all these people, some known and some not, and he'd see it through. His eyes caught those of his fiancé in the front row and he focused there a moment, allowing the knowledge that he had a support system all drawn out and watching and there for him to boost his confidence, along with his voice.

 "I know. No-one was really expecting me. The minister who was going to be speaking first heard I'd agreed to come and immediately signed over the position. She was convinced this introduction needed to come from me, for your sake and for mine. I don't know about that, but for those who don't know me, my name is Kurt Hummel. And I survived the McKinley shooting. But there's a lot more to me being up here in front of you today than that."

* * *

 The scream of sirens hadn't left Kurt's ears in twenty-four hours now, and he was beginning to suspect it never would.

 Kurt turned over in the hospital bed silently, eyes opening again at the lack of solace closing them had provided. He could still feel the weight of David falling forward onto him, could still smell the blood that was suddenly even more everywhere all at once than it already had been. In his head, David's eyes were open and dull and watching, losing what was left of their life again and again as if on repeat.

 And all he wanted was to be sleeping, but he couldn't seem to remember how.

 Instead, he continued to watch and rewatch the moving of the gun, the slow slide of it toward his mouth, the knocking against his lips until they opened, the swirl of the metal on his tongue as he stared hollowly.

 He felt again as the gun was abruptly yanked out and pressed instead into Karofsky's mouth, mingling their saliva a final time as the trigger was pressed and blood and other matter exploded out onto him.

 His mouth and eyes flinched open and he stared into the darkness of the room for a stretch of inhaleexhaleinhaleexhale before forcing himself up from the bed and going to the light on the wall, bringing it up slowly. Light filled the room and he blinked into it once, his breath steadying out as he took in the clean white of the walls and linens.

 Kurt moved back to the bed and fell back asleep with the lights on and the monsters only barely pushed back, sirens washed down to a dull intimation of warning in the back of his head, faded- but there nonetheless.

 From the doorway, Burt Hummel peered in, taking in the room ensconced in a cocoon of white light and the disturbed blankets he'd been keeping smooth and took a deep drink of his coffee before moving slowly back to his son's bedside and reaching again for his hand, swallowing the scalding liquid right along with his heart.

 He knew better than to turn the lights back off right now. Maybe someday- his son was strong- but not now. His fingers tightened around Kurt's, rubbing over his knuckles tenderly, and he closed his eyes, letting his head come forward and rest against the blankets. Exhausted, he fell into a shallow, short sleep and dreamt of the joyful, five-year old Kurt that hadn't known this kind of pain, and had held no legitimate reason to fear the dark.

 Burt, Finn, Kurt, and Carole all went home the next day, their family still technically whole, but they retired to different rooms and all kept their doors open and lights on. And though they were all getting by, at the end of the month the electricity bill was twenty dollars higher than it had been before and their things were piled high in boxes.

* * *

 Finn hesitated outside of a hospital door, eyes on the floor, fingernails on his right hand scratching absentmindedly over the bandage wrapping his left forearm.

 He drew a breath and grimaced, forcing himself to land a quick knock against the side of the doorway.

 Quinn's eyes didn't move from the wall they were traced on, excluding the smallest of flickers.

 Finn swallowed convulsively, then forced himself into the room and dropped quickly into the seat next to her. His eyes moved over the wires and machines and tubes and bandages, then settled on the cotton sleeve of her hospital gown.

 "Hi Quinn."

 He paused, as if expecting a reply back, then winced slightly in realization.

 "Sorry. I didn't mean that to sound like I… You know. I'm sorry I didn't visit you sooner. Between Kurt and Rachel, and just Glee period… They had Brittany's funeral yesterday. I thought you'd want to go, and I felt bad you couldn't. There was a ton of people there though. They're doing this big memorial thing in two weeks too, and it's going to be like for all the lives lost or something. It's weird, but I think we're supposed to be really grateful or whatever. I don't know."

 He watched her for a long moment, then pursed his lips and swallowed again.

 "I hate that he took your voice, but I'm really glad it wasn't your life, Quinn. I just had to say that. I'm sorry. I wish there was more I could have done."

 Quinn jerked a notebook from the blanket covering her and took the pen abruptly in her trembling hand, writing 'GET OUT' in all angry, dark capital letters.

 Finn swallowed, scratching at his bandaging harder.

 "The other day I tried to play a video game to distract myself, but there was blood, and I threw up. And then I thought, before I would have sung, and that would work, but then all I hear in my head is Karofsky asking if we wanted to sing now. And then I just want to throw up more. But I thought, that's so bad. Because he messed up singing for me maybe a bit, but if I can get past his voice I still can. And you… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

 In reply, Quinn just jerked the pen again, severely underlining her previous words again and again.

 This time, he got the message, and in the middle of her sixth scratch the door softly clicked behind him, leaving her back to silence.

 She turned on her side and closed her eyes and reached over to hit the nurse's button, showing them another sign when they came in to see what they could do.

 All it said was 'too much pain'.

 They filled up her IV with meds and within the hour she was out, somewhere in another world where anything else had been taken from her, anything that wasn't her voice. A world where her music could be untouched.

 Finn had been wrong- she hadn't wanted to go to that funeral. And she didn't want to go to the upcoming memorial. She just wanted to sleep.

 And maybe never wake up.

 But, she reminded herself always, there had to be a reason she was still around. A reason she somehow hadn't been killed.

 She just had to find out for sure why that was, and whether it was a curse or a miracle.

 In the meantime, though, she was in too much pain, so sleep it was.

* * *

 "Santana? You have a visitor."

 Santana didn't look up.

 "Tell them to go away."

 "Please don't," Blaine spoke up quietly, and Santana's eyes flickered for a moment before growing stationary and cold once more.

 "Long time no see, Betty."

 "I know… Santana, I'm…"

 "Save it," she spat at the table in front of her.

 He flinched and stared down.

 Silence reigned for several minutes, before Blaine awkwardly cleared his throat and tentatively stepped just ever so slightly deeper into the room, looking around himself, and then, when that only seemed to make everything worse, attempted not to look anywhere at all.

 Santana rolled her eyes at this, but stared down at the table either way.

 Blaine hesitated, glancing back behind himself, then took a deep breath and walked in all the way anyway, his gait stiff and overly formal, locked with clear tension.

 He faltered again next to the couch Santana was slouched on before slowly opting instead for sitting rigidly in an armchair across the way. His eyes were glued to her knees, the skin there raw-looking. Her calves bore burn marks, and he knew she had twin pair on her palms and over her forearms. Most of her hair was gone, buzzed off like that of a chemo patient. He kept his eyes glued to her damaged knees, still, as the silence stretched out a gulf between them.

 He'd gone over what he'd say again and again. Rehearsed it all.

 But now that he was here his head was mostly just blank.

 All he could see were the burns and worn, scratched flesh, and the guilt was already more than eating him alive.

 If he'd only convinced them to come to the library with him…

 Blaine cleared his throat, eyes flitting to her closed down face.

 "You missed the funeral."

 "And you missed  _everything_ ," she snapped back scathingly, face twisting briefly before smoothing back out. "If you came to try and make me feel bad, I'm telling you now that I will break you first, Boop. You have no right…"

 Blaine paused, then agreed quietly to this.

 "I don't."

 If he'd only gone with them in the first place…

 "Then why are you here?"

 He had no answer at first.

 Not one she wouldn't tear him to shreds for anyway.

 But then, since when had that stopped him before?

 Blaine wasn't the best with words, and he knew it. He mostly just mixed together common clichés with little finesse, but a lot of charm- the latter how he got away with it. Mostly his earnestness distracted from the jumble of probably too saccharine sentiments he'd spewed. But Santana wasn't that big a fan of earnest on her best days. On her worst, it may be the catalyst to a very major blow up.

 Or it might just get through to her.

 Ever the optimist (even if it was mostly forced right now), Blaine took that hope and plowed on.

 "I want to help."

 Right away, he realized his phrasing had been wrong.

 Her face contorted horrendously again, and she gave him a look like he was a particularly nasty breed of slug.

 "Help? You want to help? Well, bravo, how sickeningly noble of you. Do you want a medal?"

 "Santana-"

 "No. You know when your help might have actually been wanted?"

 Her voice cracked about half-way through, and he opened his mouth to answer, despite it being clear to them both that he wasn't meant to. Not that it mattered; Santana's voice picked right back up and kept on, the acid in it building.

 "How about last week, when I got admitted to this place? Or the week before, when the cops were doing all those rounds, and the media was being a bitch, and everyone started talking about how Brit and I were bullies and people started saying maybe we'd deserved it. Or, hey, how about the weekend before that, when all I could do was sleep and sometimes wake up and just remember and have to scream and scream and take out my pocketknife and try to count all the reasons I had not to just stab myself with it? I still can't make it to two hands worth. And most of all, where were you that day? Any of that day? When Britt was in the hall and she wasn't moving and I couldn't find a heartbeat? When I was forced to let go of her and get dragged off and know that she was probably being covered in some sheet and I couldn't do anything? When they said her name on the news with the list of all the other kids that were dead? Where was your  _help_  then?"

 Blaine just sat a few moments, and Santana did too, all the questions and the anger and the seething, bleeding hurt, all exposed and hanging in the air. Then, his head began to shake, and he drew a shuddering breath.

 "I was just so scared. And angry. I thought once, when I was attacked a few years ago, that I could never be angrier with the world or with just the people around me, or with myself. But this was like all of that again and magnified, and, worse, I wasn't even hurt. I wasn't around for any of it. I had a minor asthma attack from smoke inhalation, meanwhile my friends are shot, or saw someone they cared about shot, or something. And what right do I have to feel that way when I wasn't even there? And I hate myself for not being there in the first place, for being one of the lucky ones, if there is any such thing here. I didn't know what I could say, and I knew you were going to hate me, Santana. I knew everyone would. And I always talk about courage, but I just didn't have any. Not with this. I didn't want to face you hating me, when I already hate myself, and especially over something I have no power to change or make better. But I'm here now, and it's just because it hit me earlier, like, what bullshit is that. I don't get to stop being a good friend when my friends need me most just because they might resent me, or because I'm also upset. So, here I am. I just wanted you to know that. I wasn't there for a lot of things I wish I could have been, but I'm here now, and for whatever might come up."

 Santana's fingernails slowly lifted from her palm, leaving red indents, and for the first time that day she looked him in the eye.

 "I can't deal with you right now."

 Blaine nodded.

 "That's fine. I'll leave if you do want that."

 "But…" Santana paused, grappling with words, then let them loose in a rush. "I'll call you. I get phone calls here. Short ones, but you can get approved and put on the list, and I might call you. Psych places aren't as bad as I thought they'd be, and most of the people here make me look really sane, which is a plus, but it still really sucks. I'll probably be out in a couple more weeks. And then I'll just be doing out patient Dr. Phil junk. You owe me one thing though, alright?"

 "Whatever you need."

 Santana's nails folded back into her palms.

 Her nostrils flared a moment, then she gritted her teeth and forced onward.

 "Will you put flowers on her grave for me?"

 Blaine nodded slowly, and exhaled shakily just the same.

 "Of course."

 He stood, nothing more seeming to need said, and moved to the door, hesitating only when his hand wrapped around the knob.

 "Any specific kind?" he asked the wood finally.

 Santana's eyes fell to her lap then closed hard, her nails biting her skin with increasing force.

 "Her favorites are pink roses, dandelions, and sunflowers."

 The use of the present tense didn't go unnoticed, but wasn't commented on. Instead, Blaine just nodded again.

 "I will. I'll see you again soon."

 Santana rolled her eyes at that.

 "Just get out of here, dreamboat. I didn't say you could linger."

 At that, he gave a snort of laughter, and so did she, even if the sensation of it felt strange, and as the door opened and closed she unconsciously let her nails leave her hand and instead just wove her fingers together, almost feeling for a moment that the hand clasping hers might not just be her own.

 But then that was gone, and so was Brittany, and even with a friend's hand ready for whenever she needed it, it just wasn't the same. So, Santana left the room and retreated back to sleep, where everything that mattered didn't get taken from her, and she didn't have to notice the difference between 'is' and 'was'.

* * *

 It turned out that no-one had needed to out Karofsky, or Kurt for that matter, to the police. Before anyone who had been aware of the goings-on between Dave and Kurt had any chance to inform any authorities, the search on Dave's room yielded enough that it was figured out quickly enough. The data collection on his computer picked up even more.

 Searches on blackmail. On rape. On rape pornography. Videos that got more and more realistic. Sites he'd gone on anonymously to talk about his "sick urges". Advice he'd asked for on dealing with the boy he'd blackmailed into becoming his outlet. Connecting the dots got easier and easier with every three w's, and they started construction of a timeline when, inevitably, they did get reports.

 Kurt had to come in to Finn's session of panic and let him off the hook about keeping his promise when the other boy literally started hyperventilating after the detectives tried asking him about a possible connection between Karofsky and his step-brother.

 Puck, thankfully, saw Kurt before going in and made a point of saying bluntly: "I'm not keeping secrets for you, Hummel. Forget it." And then just going past before Kurt could say a word about how he understood that, or how he was sorry.

 There were a lot of things, though, that they all left unspoken these days.

 Sam, Kurt didn't see and didn't want to, but Finn passed along the message that they were done hiding things, and told Kurt that the message had been received. Kurt couldn't be sure if he was relieved or not.

 Three weeks after the shooting, Kurt and Finn were set to go back to school, and did, if only technically.

 Kurt saw a red jacket over bulky shoulders in the hall and promptly lost his breath and couldn't get it back for another forty-two minutes.

 Finn saw the door into the Vocal Adrenaline choir room close and threw up.

 The brothers each cut their first class at Carmel, where all the students from McKinley had been assigned to finish out the year while neighborhoods were rezoned and a new school started construction, holing up in a corner of the bleachers. The pair didn't really talk, but somehow came to the understanding anyway that they wouldn't be going to any more classes at Carmel that day, or the next.

 Or any after that.

 In the time they would have spent in their last three periods of the day, they both began looking up houses on their phones, googling cities and real estate costs and everything they could think of to look up.

 When they got home, Burt was on the computer too, with Carole in a chair she'd pulled from the dining room next to him, and they were doing just the same.

 In three days' time, the Hummel-Hudson clan was settled on New Jersey, and was getting a house under the works, and looking up the cost for extended-stay hotel rooms, and almost their entire house was in boxes.

 By the end of the month, despite both hell and high water, they would be on their way to a new home, and a new school, and even if it didn't actually change all that much, they'd all find the change in surrounding felt necessary, and they'd be stuck in a hotel for three months, then in a house smaller than what they'd been in, but the electric bill would go down either way when they did eventually move in, until the levels were just slightly above what had once been normal.

 They would find a new beginning, and, as Hummel-Hudsons did, which Kurt was one, survive.

 But survival was a fight every day, and in the here and now, surrounded by boxes and with his guilt mounting along with the cardboard compilation of their lives, fighting was the last thing Kurt wanted to do.

 Which was why it only figured that Puck's voice would announce behind him:

 "You can't be serious."

 Kurt sucked in his lips and drew his arms firmly over his chest.

 "Go away Puckerman."

 "Fuck you, Hummel. You're running then?"

 "I told my dad and Carole and Finn all not to let you up here if they had you come over."

 "That's what Finn said," Puck affirmed nonchalantly. Then, with more anger saturating his voice, "Where are you going to go Kurt?"

 "Finn didn't tell you?" Kurt asked back, tone noncommittal, eyes refusing to meet Puck's.

 Puck snorted.

 "Don't you dare blow me off after all the shit I did for you. And I know where you're going. Just like you know that's not what I mean."

 "Go away, Noah," Kurt bit out. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

 "Shouldn't you?" Puck retorted darkly. "I'm sure there are other closeted jocks at Carmel for you to…"

 He stopped himself too late, as always. Kurt pulled in a lip, his hands twisting against the fabric of his pockets.

 "You should say it, Noah."

 "I wasn't saying anything," Puck said immediately, tone exasperated. His good arm rose to fist through his Mohawk.

 "Yes you were."

 Kurt's voice was quiet, his face strangely blank.

 "It's okay. I won't start crying or anything. You're right. It was my fault it went that far. It's my fault they're dead."

 Puck blew out a breath and started a step forward before taking two back instead.

 "Shut up."

 Kurt inhaled deeply and allowed his eyes to fall shut, his arms' position over his chest tightening even more.

 "I can't stay here, Puck," his voice was hollow, along with his eyes. Not really there. But how long had it been since he really was?

 Puck was silent for a beat before words clawed their way up his throat, if only to regain some comfort with the presence of sound.

 "What about glee club?"

 It sounded dumb, and Puck knew it, but he was far beyond his ability to care, and, as far as he figured, used to it anyway.

 "Glee is about opening yourself up to joy," Kurt recited mechanically, eyes blank on a box a few feet away. Then, they flicked to Puck abruptly. "I don't know about you, but I don't think I can really do joy right at this moment. A few weeks ago, I might have maybe been able to pull it off. Even then it would have been a stretch. But right now? Puck, I don't think I could do it even if Alexander McQueen was alive again and using me in a fashion shoot and calling out in the background 'give me glee!'. Glee burned. The choir room is rubble. 'Give me glee'? Give me a break."

 Puck winced and drew further back.

 "Do you remember what you always used to say?" he asked, anger seeping with fear into his voice.

 Kurt wasn't looking at him again.

 "You'll have to be more specific, Puckerman," he replied, and his voice now was just tired.

 "One day," Puck quoted quietly, "you'll all work for me." Then: "You seemed unbreakable, you know? We threw you in with the garbage every day, slushied you, tortured-"

 "And how do I seem now?" Kurt asked, cutting him short, tone still utterly lackadaisical.

 Puck didn't even have to think about it.

 "Broken."

 This earned him no answer, not even really an acknowledgement.

 There was no real need for one.

 "Will you ever come back?" Puck asked finally.

 Kurt closed his eyes.

 He didn't have an answer for that really either.

 Puck swallowed, dragging his hand through his Mohawk and fisting it forcefully.

 "Fine. If you need to leave and not, whatever, that's your choice. I get it."

 Kurt looked to Puck sideways, his glasz eyes inscrutable but focused, unwavering on the boy next to him.

 "But," Puck's voice again became hard under Kurt's increased scrutiny, "you can't just shut the rest of us out until you're gone."

 "I can do what I want," Kurt interjected, voice suddenly fierce.

 Puck's eyes seared him in return, and he tensed, glaring.

 "I can," he added forcefully.

 "Let me talk," Puck retorted, tone dark and determined.

 "You're right, and you can do whatever the fuck you need to do for you. But you shouldn't do  _that_. Not after all we did for you. Do you even realize how fucked that is? You realize Sam's family lost their house because they had to be able to pay his medical bills? They're stuck up in a hotel now. Everything's gone to shit. And even if no-one can blame you guys for wanting to jump ship, because really it's what we all want to do, it's still not fair for you to desert us all completely. Not after this, Kurt. Even if we all weren't around as much as we should have been… And we should have noticed…."

 Puck's voice was bitter, the words spat like something sour, but his gaze was sure, and his brow contrite.

 "We should have. We all could have stopped it, but don't for a second think you can take blame, if we can't. And we won't. Because at the end of the day, it was Karofsky who pulled the damn trigger, every time. It was him who set the fire. And anyway, point is, when he… when he did pull it-"

 Puck took in a deep breath and came toward Kurt, steps forced but unfaltering.

 "No-one abandoned you to it, did we? None of us would have, not for a second. So… So, don't leave us completely. Not when there's still a fucking gun on all of us, man. That won't do anything good, not for us, and not for you."

 Puck swallowed then retreated, eyes turning to the ground.

 "I can't say anything else. And I'm pretty sure it doesn't really matter to you, anymore. But that's screwed, because it should. And if there's any part of you that's still who you were once… Well, the Kurt Hummel I once knew would care. He cared about things. He'd care about this, anyway. I hope you're still enough him to at least know that. Come on, dude."

 Puck fell silent once more, frowning deeply.

 Kurt was unresponsive still, eyes set on his shoes.

 At last, Puck sighed, pushing his hand through his Mohawk once more, and reached out abruptly, pulling Kurt into a hard hug, both surprised and not when the other didn't move to get away.

 "You can't let that dickhead win, Hummel. Prove us all wrong, that you're still you and that you'll never really be broken. We need that, if nothing else. …Please."

 Puck smiled grimly, looking strangely like a soldier come back from the front lines of war, and at last left.

 Alone again, Kurt swallowed and squeezed his eyes closed, willing himself to not hear Puck's words repeating in his head.

 The effort, though, was in vain.

 Teeth gritted and feeling sick, Kurt sat down heavily on a box packed full with books, tugging his phone reluctantly free from his pocket when he could no longer suppress the urge.

 He stared at it, as if not quite sure what to do with it, then numbly scrolled to his messaging and opened up a blank text, addressing it even more slowly to everyone in New Directions, the dead and the alive all the same, and then as if in an afterthought, to his dad and Carole, too.

 Looking at all those names, all the people he'd sometimes hated and always loved, the words came to the surface like they'd been waiting to all along, somehow becoming the easiest thing in all this.

 The only thing easier, though he couldn't say why, was hitting send.

 The motion was thoughtless, just like the words, and when they were gone, he was slammed by exhaustion, as though he'd been expending effort to stop himself doing this before without realizing it, and now that he'd let it go-

 Well, he might actually be able to get some sleep.

 In fact, he definitely could.

 Kurt stood, then, and looked around the room.

 Night was just beginning to fall, and shadows draped themselves in eerie languidness over the stark room, making themselves at home.

 Kurt sighed, and went to his bed, sliding in.

 He turned the light on, of course, moments before sleep took him.

 But, strangely, the action was more an obligatory one than anything else.

 It was almost like healing.

 Almost.

 That night, Kurt had no nightmares, but he also had no dreams.

* * *

 Numbly, Noah Puckerman flexed his fingers around his phone.

 He glanced at his bedside table. At the gun he'd spent the last several days considering, and the last half-hour  _very_ considering. Then back to his phone.

 One new text from Kurt Hummel.

 He was almost afraid to open it.

 No.

 Who was he kidding anymore?

 The idea that he was any kind of a bad ass was long gone. Had been the second Karofsky had come into the choir room. Definitely when Quinn… when the mother of his daughter was hurt. And he didn't do a damn thing to stop it.

 When his friends were attacked, and his teacher was killed.

 When he pissed his pants in terror.

 When he yelled at his little sister for closing her door too loudly, or his mom for banging a pot against the counter when she was cooking him some "Jewish healing" in the form of mazoball soup.

 He wasn't kidding anyone.

 He was terrified.

 Puck swallowed thickly, reaching for the gun.

 He wrapped his fingers around the metal and lay back on his bed, legs over the side, chest hardly moving.

 His other hand brought up the phone again, and again he stared at the message alert.

 Puck sighed.

 Might as well, if it was over anyway, right?

 He was being stupid about this.

 He thumbed open the message, and stared at it.

 It was short and to the point. Barely a message at all, but all the same more than enough of one.

 "I'm still here. I'll be moving, but I'm not going anywhere. We'll make it somehow."

 Puck nodded to himself, once then again, and then rolled out of bed.

 He tossed the gun into his trashcan, heart suddenly thundering, then opened his door and hurried downstairs. His mom was in the kitchen, washing dishes, when he spoke, voice cracking.

 "Ma…"

 "Noah?"

 She turned and he rushed her immediately, arms going around her and holding on for dear life as his breath picked up pace and tears welled.

 "I need help."

 His mom stroked fingers through his hair after a moment of hesitation, sighing against his ear.

 "Baby, right now we all do. But we're fighters, okay? Yesh Tikvah. It's in our blood to survive, Noah. Alright? We'll get you help. I'm glad you asked."

 And he was, too.

 Bad ass or not.

* * *

 Quinn stared at the message then shuddered, shoving her phone away.

 Even Kurt was talking now, preaching hope or whatever.

 How could he?

 She'd thought that if nothing else she could count on Kurt at least to be more messed up in all this than her.

 Next he'd start believing in God or something.

 It only figured he would now, just when she was starting to think she may see his point.

 She blinked back tears and pressed the call button next to her bed.

 She needed help.

 Help only more pain meds could give.

 Soon the nurse was there, plugging a new drip into her IV, pity in her eyes. It made Quinn feel sick and revolting.

 Thankfully, in no time she'd be fast asleep, and not able to feel anything.

 But not Thank God, she remembered, drifting off.

 He had forsaken her, if he even existed, and she was done with everything. Her hands itched to go to her throat, to rub over the bandages until they were gone and she was free to bleed out, or something. Anything.

 At least Kurt had mentioned moving, which meant he'd probably be taking her brain dead asshole of an exboyfriend with him. Good. She hoped they all left. Maybe then she'd finally be alone, like she deserved.

 Hatred twisting her insides still, Quinn fell into a restless, drug-induced sleep.

 At her bedside, only now that she was asleep, Artie Abrams allowed himself to roll forward and take her hand in his, eyes closing as he murmured prayers he'd not said since his own accident and opening as he whispered stories of when he too had thought himself beyond real help.

 Maybe someday he'd tell them when she was awake, but he didn't think either of them were ready quite yet, especially when this was just as much if not more about helping himself feel better. He needed to feel like he was doing something, after a choir room where he'd been stuck watching while the people he cared about fell.

 He'd gotten the text, of course, too, and could only guess what Quinn must have thought of it. She had to feel as helpless and angry as he had, at least. And knowing that, and knowing that Finn and Kurt were both doing their part in leaving, Artie felt he could stop his own helplessness if he could assuage the loneliness of hers, and the others.

 He'd been visiting everyone since two days after the shooting.

 It was the only way he could get any sleep, himself.

 He stroked a thumb over the top of Quinn's bruised hand and kept quietly talking, noting the way she tensed when he got too quiet, relaxed when his voice rose, as if he was speaking somehow for the both of them, taking both of their loads off with the slow winding of his tales.

 He'd talk as long as that kept up.

 He'd talk forever if it meant helping someone.

 Maybe especially if it meant helping himself and this particular someone.

 After all, he'd spent so long having himself spoken for. Taking care of the words for someone else was something new, something special.

 Amazing, he considered, and "Amazing," he said both to and for her. "Maybe something good can come out of even this." If anyone could unearth the green from beneath this burnt soil, Artie was pretty sure it would be his Glee club.

 And in the meantime, he'd just keep talking.

* * *

 "Kurt? Are you sure you can handle this?"

 Ten years later, though not quite to the day, hands curled in the space over his shoulder, waiting for the blades to rise and greet them, assuring them in the gesture it was okay to touch, and moving slowly and tenderly when after a beat they did so.

 "Not completely."

 "What did Dr. Wineberg say?"

 Kurt grimaced and sighed.

 "He said if I have any doubt I really shouldn't push myself," Kurt grumbled. "Of course. But I couldn't just drop out now. I owe everyone that much."

 "You don't owe anyone anything," the voice in his ear rebuked that immediately. "I hate when you talk like that, Kurt..."

 Kurt sighed, turning and leaning into his fiancé's chest, burying his head in the other man's shoulder as he shook it.

 "Liam, don't start with that again please. It's an ugly truth," he murmured. "And I'm not claiming to take all the fault. But both of us know that if I'd just said something way back when it all started, a huge amount of hurt could have been avoided. I had a role in the way it all played out, and even if I shouldn't part of me will always feel responsible. But I think maybe, I'm hoping, if I can go out there and at least do this, that part might just get a little bit smaller and a little less painful."

 A nod and a kiss to his head was his answer, quickly followed by ones to his forehead and cheeks and lips. Kurt kissed back quietly, trying to push back the melancholy settling over him. He was so much more whole now, and he was himself, but there was still this awful, agonizing wound inside of him, and he felt like he was just pouring alcohol into it with this latest decision. The pain was tripling and he hated it, but he knew the damage would be lesser for it. He just had to get through.

 He always did.

 No matter what he'd once thought, he was Kurt Hummel, and nothing and nobody pushed the Hummels around. It was nice, though, that this time he didn't have to go through it alone.

 Or didn't feel like he had to.

 A knock on the door had them both turning and Blaine smiled awkwardly at them from the doorway, the expression shifting quickly back down.

 "Sorry to interrupt. Kurt… Liam. It's good to see you two again."

 "Yeah, you too," Liam spoke up. "Should I give you two some space? …I know we need coffee."

 "That'd be great, sweetie," Kurt murmured. "You know my order."

 "Still the same as it was?" Blaine spoke up, an eyebrow raised and a smirk touching at his lips.

 "I know what I want," Kurt replied easily and Liam laughed as he left, whispering conspiratorially to Blaine, "His caffeine and his stubbornness are probably the only things about him that will never change."

 "You're telling me."

 There was a brief silence following the close of the door and then Blaine stepped forward quickly and pulled Kurt in for a tight hug.

 "It's been too long."

 "Yeah," Kurt sighed. "I wish the reunion with everyone could be happier, but…"

 Blaine shrugged, pulling back and smiling slightly, if painfully.

 "Are you ready for it?"

 "Not really."

 Blaine paused again, then sighed.

 "No-one is saying you have to go through with it, you know? There's a reason most of us didn't volunteer to speak Kurt. And almost no-one expected you to. Of all of us, you probably have the most reason not to…"

 Kurt scowled slightly, despite himself.

 "Why does everyone keep trying to talk as if I shouldn't be doing this? First Finn, then Liam, then Sam, then Tina, then Dr. Wineberg, and then more Liam, since he won't let anything rest, and now you. I'm fine. I have to do this."

 Blaine straightened at the steel in his old friend's voice and sucked in his lips a moment, expression tight.

 "That's the thing, though. You don't have to-"

 "Yes," Kurt bit out. "I really do. And it's not just for you guys or for the media attention and the causes or for everyone that died in part because of my lack of a voice. It's also for me. To give me just a little of the peace that I need about this. So if you can not mother-hen me for just like a minute here I'd really appreciate it. You of all people should understand that I can take care of myself. You and Liam, both, actually. I'm twenty-seven years old now, for God's sake. I'm not a stupid teenager anymore that's too caught up in my own head to know what I can and can't handle. It's unnecessary for anyone to be so worried."

 "That may be. As your friend, though, I think I'm kind of obligated. And with Liam being your fiancé, he's got even more right than I do," Blaine said lowly, then rubbed his neck and smiled at Kurt a little. "I still feel weird saying that."

 Kurt stared at him a moment, then sunk back onto the hotel room's bed.

 "Have any advice for me? You were always the fortune cookie."

 "Does courage work?"

 Kurt eyed his hands.

 "I don't know, Blaine. It's one-thirty, and at four I'm supposed to stand at the memorial and talk about everything in a way that doesn't sound completely demented and bitter, so I don't know. Does it? Did it then? Will it now? Is courage somehow meant to be enough?"

 "I don't know about enough. But I know that then and now, as far as I can tell, courage has always helped."

 "I guess we'll find out," Kurt said after a moment, and his voice was weary and distant, but still hard. "Because one way or another, I'm getting up there. I have to. And I want to."

 Blaine squeezed his shoulder and moved toward the door.

 "That's good, Kurt. I'll see you at four then. I just wanted to say hi and wish you luck. And courage. I'll let Quinn know you're still good for the speech."

 Kurt nodded and smiled vaguely in his direction.

 "As if I could let down the great reverend Fabray. I have to at least try to get the crowd warmed up before she talks. You know… as horrible and stunting as it was, we grew up didn't we?"

 "Yeah. I guess we did…"

 And then Blaine left and Kurt frowned at the door for a moment before swallowing and reaching for his pen and his index cards. He scanned what he had in terms of notes and a speech, then reached for a stack of blank of cards and somberly started to write.

* * *

**This chapter dedicated to those lost and left behind by the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary. Here's hoping someday we learn, and that gun violence in our schools can be diminished to a point of nonexistence. The massacres in real life and the one in this story are tragedies that shouldn't, by any accounts, happen, and yet, when they do, a note that life ultimately returns and triumphs. No matter how far any story, be it fiction or not, ventures into darkness, there will always be some sprig of hope and some return to light. May all those taken too soon, whether it be in this most recent shooting, or in any of those prior, or in any incident of school violence at all, rest at peace and in a better place. Hope is never gone no matter what it looks like, and in the worst tragedies, it is love and it is life that truly thrive.**

**"Look at how a single candle can both defy and define the darkness."**

**\- Anne Frank**

**"Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that."**

**-Martin Luther King, Jr.**

 

**For the record, Vibrato was initially intended to have a 24th chapter or epilogue. I had most of it written, however when I finally came back to finish it after Cory Monteith's unexpected death and having my (now three year old-whaaat) son, I quickly found out about the charges being brought against Mark Salling. I have since not been able to read, write, or otherwise engage with Glee. I really wanted to finish this as intended but can no longer write Puck's character, so I think this is where I'll be leaving this fanfiction. I have had this chapter up on FF.net for ages and hadn't realized it wasn't on here, so sincerest apologies there. Otherwise, I hope this chapter at least helps leave this story on a stronger note. Thanks to all who read and cared. <3**


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